iRun Dry
by TheScarletOctopus
Summary: Water. Essential for life, yet constantly taken for granted-until now. When the world's water supply turns to acid, panic and chaos sweep the globe. What will happen to the iCarly gang-and why does Freddie look so guilty?
1. Prologue: Down the Drain

**A/N: I decided it was time to try a serious **_**iCarly**_** story for a change. For those following "Hollywood Argonauts," fear not; I'm not abandoning it. I just find that it helps my creative juices to have two stories going at once, so that when I get stuck on one I can switch to the other.**

**Disclaimer: needless to say, I don't own **_**iCarly**_**.**

_Prologue_

_July 15, 2012_

_Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency_

_Nanotechnology Research Facility_

_San Diego, California_

Dr. Marcus Meacham ran one last equipment check. Tank: Watertight and secure. Probe: On-line and reporting all information. Nanomachines: Dormant and awaiting activation. Even though he trusted his youthful assistant thoroughly, he would never have let anyone else take over this task. What happened today might well be the crowning achievement of a thirty-five year scientific career; and, more importantly still, it might revolutionize the world, improving the standard of living for all humanity.

Finally satisfied, he tapped a control on his iPad to begin the process. The nanomachines were almost infinitesimally tiny, yet their effects could be seen immediately: the water in the tank began to churn and foam, small eddies appearing throughout its volume.

There was nothing to do now but wait. He turned to his assistant, who sat at a screen monitoring the data that was flooding in. "How do things look so far, Mr. Benson?"

"Everything's looking good, Dr. Meacham; salt content is dropping steadily." The boy smiled. If anything, he was probably more excited than his boss, and Dr. Meacham didn't blame him one bit. It was a huge honor for someone only just graduated from high school to serve as an intern on a project of this magnitude; Meacham had selected him personally from over fifteen thousand applicants to DARPA's summer internship program. If anyone asked, the selection criteria were the boy's raw scientific aptitude and his uncanny skill with computers; but truth be told, Meacham had been unable to resist hiring a youth who reminded him so much of himself at that age.

The water was now still, the process presumably complete. A puzzled look crossed the boy's face; as Meacham watched, it shifted to irritation, then alarm. "What's the matter?" he asked.

The boy shook his head. "I don't understand this, Dr. Meacham. I need to check this out the old-fashioned way." Opening a sliding compartment in the top of the tank, he inserted a strip of litmus paper. A moment later, he withdrew it and shook it gently.

It was bright red.

"What on earth?" the scientist said.

The boy repeated the test with shaking hands. The results were identical. "This…this makes no sense. All the salt has been eliminated, but somehow the nanomachines have lowered the water's pH to 1.9." He looked up, and Meacham thought he had never seen so unnerved an expression. "It's turned into acid, Doctor."

"My God," Meacham whispered. He couldn't begin to fathom where he had gone awry. The microscopic self-replicating machines had been engineered with painstaking care to desalinate sea water, rendering it drinkable. Every test so far had gone off without a hitch; the only task that remained was to program the nanomachines to terminate after a fixed number of replications, so that they didn't reproduce infinitely and run amok. How could this have happened?

With great difficulty, he collected himself. He wanted to scream in frustration, but it would only serve to distress his poor assistant further. Keeping his voice perfectly steady, he said, "Well, such things do happen. We'll just have to scrap this batch and analyze the data further before we try again."

"Yes, of course, Doctor," murmured the boy. He reached over and flicked a switch. The contents of the tank drained into the ultra-high-temperature furnace beneath it, which would evaporate the liquid and destroy the nanomachines utterly.

"Setting furnace to 400°C," Benson remarked, and turned a dial.

Nothing happened.

"Crud," he muttered. Fetching a screwdriver, he removed the front panel to examine the inner workings of the device.

Meacham impatiently turned away. What _else_ could go wrong today?

"DOCTOR!" Benson screamed.

The scientist whirled. Acid was spilling out of the furnace onto the floor.

"What the hell happened?"

"It melted the plastic seals! It's…oh, God, I can't stop it! Everything's leaking!" The boy leapt backward as the tips of his shoes began to sizzle.

Meacham grabbed a wet vacuum. "Hurry, boy! We have to stop the flow before it reaches…"

Too late.

"…the drain."

The acidic fluid, and the nanomachines with it, ran into the chemical drain in the center of the laboratory floor. Its next stop would be the sewer system, and then…

The elderly scientist sank into a chair. He had been sure, so very sure, that this day would prove the salvation of humanity. Instead, he might well have doomed it to destruction.

Freddie Benson stepped around the acid-scarred region of the floor and approached his boss, tears in his eyes. "So…what happens now?"

"Now, Mr. Benson? Now…may God help us all."


	2. No More Fun and Games

**A/N: Holy shit, did this get dark fast.**

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

_August 8, 2012_

Sam Puckett had a very firm self-imposed rule: only one worry at a time. She didn't like anxiety – not one bit – and she did everything she could to limit it. Unfortunately, circumstances were not in her favor right now.

At the beginning of the summer, it had been clear to her what her one source of worry would be for the next three months. The gang had all graduated, and come September they'd be splitting up. Carly was off to the University of Washington, Freddie to Caltech on a full scholarship. Sam had worked her tail off throughout her senior year and improved her grades significantly, but the record of her first three years still haunted her, and her counselor gently informed her that she wasn't likely to be admitted to any decent four-year university. Nothing daunted, she decided on Greater Seattle Community College; she'd have two years to prove her academic mettle, and then she could transfer into whatever school she wanted. Meanwhile, she would work to support herself, since her mother had descended into an alcoholic haze and wasn't of much use to anyone anymore. She already had a job lined up as a drafter at an architectural firm downtown, where she'd be able to put her artistic talents to good use.

All things considered, it was a pretty bright future – certainly brighter than Sam had envisioned just a year earlier. But even so, it meant years apart from her two closest friends in the world. "We won't be _that _far away!" Carly kept saying. "You can come visit me anytime, and Freddie will at least be on the West Coast!" Sam always smiled and nodded, but the words were cold comfort.

It would have been easier to bear if the three of them had been spending this last summer together. But Freddie had been selected for a prestigious internship in San Diego, and Sam didn't dare ask him to turn it down. The way his face lit up when the acceptance letter arrived – she would never do anything to spoil that joy.

So, two Freddie-less months to endure, then – or so she thought. But something had gone wrong at the internship, and it was this that had piled on a fresh anxiety for Sam. Freddie returned two weeks earlier than he was supposed to, and stubbornly refused to say why. He wasn't saying much of anything, in fact; every question put to him, every casual remark made by Carly or Sam in an attempt to draw him into conversation, was answered by clipped monosyllables. Nowadays he generally moped around for most of the day, muttering to himself, refusing to look anyone in the eye. He ate almost nothing, and was becoming visibly emaciated. Sam could almost imagine that the Freddie Benson she knew had been replaced by some sort of soulless android duplicate.

There was only one circumstance in which he would snap out of his funk, and it puzzled Sam to no end. It was the hottest summer in Seattle's recorded history, and thirst was only natural; yet when Freddie was offered a glass of water, or when he witnessed someone else about to take a drink, he visibly stiffened, all his muscles tense, as if he were struggling with some inner terror. Once the water ran into his or the other person's mouth without incident, he would breathe a sigh of relief as if he had just dodged a bullet.

At last Sam had decided, with a resigned sigh, that though she might still love Freddie Benson, she would never fully understand him.

It was nearly time for iCarly – the next to last show they would put on before school began and they went their separate ways. The heat and humidity were oppressive; even the Shays' industrial-strength air conditioner was hard put to keep the temperature bearable. As she waited for Freddie to finish running his pre-show technical checks, Sam slumped on the couch next to Spencer, who was immersed in his new reality show obsession, _Celebrities in Hog Wallows._

"I can't believe they cut off the first half of the show," the elder Shay grumbled.

"Why? What happened?" Even the effort of talking was draining now.

"There was a special bulletin. Apparently there've been more reports of mass deaths of marine life in the south Pacific. Honestly, do I really need to know when a bunch of cod goes belly-up?"

"Aw, man – now the price of fish sticks is going to go up." _Gonna have to stick to ham for a while, I guess._

Carly entered the living room from the kitchen, glass of lemonade in hand, and clad in a light summer dress that clung to her glowing skin. She wiped her forehead. "Is it possible for human beings to melt? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I'm halfway there."

"I hear ya, Carls. Isn't Frednub done yet?"

"He _should_ have been done fifteen minutes ago. We'd better go check on him."

In the studio, they found Freddie staring into space, oblivious to everything around him.

"Hey! Benson! Earth to Geekboy!"

He shook his head as if awakening from a dream. "What? What is it?"

"Is everything ready for the show?"

"Um…the big wheel is broken. We're going to have to skip 'Put That in Your Man Purse'."

"Crud," muttered Carly. "That leaves five minutes to fill." She turned to Sam. "Do you think Gibby will be up for a game of 'Lick the Carpet Square'?"

"Come on, Carls. Have you ever known Gibby to turn down a chance to lick something?"

"…Good point. But we don't have any ranch dressing to dump on him if he gets one wrong."

"No problemo. We can just squirt him with the hose instead."

"No!" Freddie cried. Both girls jumped, startled.

"What's the matter with you, Fredwad? Did you develop a case of hose-o-phobia while we weren't looking?"

"It's just – you can't do that. You have to listen to me. You can't." All Freddie's malaise was gone; he was sweating, wringing his hands, almost frantic. It frightened Sam a little.

"Would you knock it off already? Maybe _you_ need to be squirted with the hose."

To Sam's utter astonishment, Freddie stepped forward and grabbed her arm. "God _damn_ it, Puckett, you _can't do this_."

It took every ounce of her self-restraint to keep from punching him in the jaw. "I don't know what the _hell _has gotten into you, Freddie, but get your hands off me. Right. Now."

He released her. Remorse flooded his face. "Oh, God, Sam, I'm so sorry. I just…please…please listen to me…" Tears were welling up at the corners of his eyes.

She shoved him away. "Okay, it's official. You've lost your freakin' mind." A part of Sam was deeply distraught to see Freddie in this state, but her dominant emotion at the moment was rage. No one, not even Freddie Benson, got to lay a hand on her like that.

Carly, always the peacemaker, stepped in between them. "Let's just forget it, guys. It doesn't matter if the show runs a little short."

"No," said Sam. "We're going to do 'Lick the Carpet Square,' and Mr. Nutjob over here" – she jerked her thumb at the now weeping Freddie – "is going to suck it up and quit complaining."

She stared at Carly, daring her to object. The brunette, realizing it was futile to reason with Sam, yielded. "Okay, okay, we'll do it. Freddie, it'll be fine. I promise. It's just a game."

Freddie wiped his eyes. "Sure," he whispered, all the fight gone out of him. "Just a game."

/

"In 5, 4, 3, 2…"

"I'm Carly…"

"I'm Carly's evil blond doppelganger…"

"And this is…iCarly!"

"Today we're going to find out just how sensitive Gibby Gibson's legendary taste buds are." Carly slipped a blindfold around Gibby's eyes. "Sam will hand him carpet squares, and he'll have to guess their color just by licking them!"

The pudgy boy rubbed his tongue up and down the first square. "I'm gonna go with…burgundy?"

"YES!" Carly and Sam cried. Sam punched a button on her remote, and thunderous applause filled the studio.

"Here's number two…"

He licked it several times, obviously perplexed. "I think…maybe…oh, dang it…saffron?"

"Nope! Fuchsia! Looks like you get…the HOSE!" As she stooped to pick up the nozzle, Sam noticed, in the corner of her eye, that Freddie had tensed up once again.

"Ready? One…two…three…spray!" Carly turned on the faucet, and Sam lifted the hose, unleashing a stream of clear liquid.

What happened next stunned them all. As soon as the flow struck Gibby's chest, he gave an ear-shattering scream of pain and fell to the ground, writhing. At the same moment, the hose began to melt in Sam's hands. She dropped it and kicked it away like a poisonous snake.

Carly hurriedly shut off the faucet, and both girls ran to the fallen boy. A large patch of his shirt had been burned away; the flesh underneath it was steaming. He was making small moans, with garbled words in between them: "Hurts…help…burns…please…"

"Jesus Christ. Carly, call 911. Freddie, go get your mother." Much as Sam disliked Mrs. Benson, she knew that the older woman's nursing skills would be invaluable in this crisis.

There was no response. Sam turned. Freddie was completely frozen. The camera slid from his hands and crashed to the floor; he didn't even seem to notice.

"Did you hear me? Get your mom NOW!"

The rest of Freddie remained motionless, but his lips began to form words. "It's all my fault."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Everything is my fault. I've killed him. I've killed everyone."

"I don't have time for this shit." Pushing him aside, Sam ran downstairs, past an alarmed Spencer, and across the hall. She banged on the Bensons' door with all her might.

Eight locks were undone, one by one, and the perpetually frowning face of Marissa Benson appeared. "What do you want, Sam? Is something the matter with my Freddie?"

"No, but Gibby's hurt. He needs help. Please."

Instantly, Mrs. Benson switched into her professional mode. Grabbing her medical bag, she followed Sam back into the Shays' apartment.

It took her only moments to assess Gibby's condition. "It's an acid burn. I need lukewarm water, now."

Acting on instinct, Sam ran to the tap, then realized it was useless. She turned to Spencer, who had followed them into the studio. "Do you have any bottled water?"

"Yeah, in the pantry. Hold on." He ran downstairs and returned in a moment with a gallon jug. Mrs. Benson poured some of the water onto a sterile cloth and rubbed Gibby's chest gently. His screams diminished to soft whimpers, and his breathing became more regular.

The paramedics arrived only minutes later. When they had departed with the injured boy, accompanied by Spencer and Mrs. Benson (as Gibby's parents were out of town and couldn't be reached), Sam and Carly confronted the still nigh-catatonic Freddie.

"All right, Benson, explain."

"All my fault, all my fault, all my fault…God forgive me…"

Every ounce of patience gone, Sam slapped him. "That is _not_ an explanation. Now, I don't know what's causing this guilt trip, and frankly I don't care. We need you, Freddie, and we need you now, so _snap out of it_."

He touched his stinging cheek. Awareness crept back into his eyes. "I…yeah. Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry." As he straightened up, Sam could see some of his old determination returning. "There's lots to do. We have to prepare. Carly, how much bottled water do you have on hand?"

"A lot, I think. Why?"

Freddie took a deep breath. "Because, as of right now, fresh water just became the most valuable commodity on Earth."


	3. A Bump in the Road

**A/N: I was thinking about doing a Halloween horror one-shot, but given the way this story's trending, it may qualify as horror all on its own. (I'm starting to wonder whether I should raise the rating to M just to be safe.)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**iCarly**_**, which is good, because if I did there would be millions of psychologically traumatized children right now.**

Spencer and Mrs. Benson sat in silence in the back of the ambulance, facing one another. The rest of the cramped space was occupied by Gibby, lying on a stretcher, and two EMTs; one held an oxygen mask over Gibby's nose and mouth, while the other monitored his vital signs. "Pulse weak but steady. BP is 180/70. Everything looks good."

Spencer breathed a silent sigh of relief. He had ridden in an ambulance only twice before in his life: when the six-year-old Carly had a terrible asthma attack, and the day that their mother died. Painful memories of those experiences were forcing their way into his consciousness, and he struggled to repress them.

Sensing his inner distress, Mrs. Benson gave him a sympathetic smile. "Try not to worry, Spencer. Seattle Mercy will give him the best possible care."

"I know. I just…feel so helpless right now."

"What exactly happened?"

"I'm not sure. I was downstairs, watching _Celeb_…um…watching _Masterpiece Theater_, and this screaming came from the studio. When I got there, Gibby was on the floor, writhing around…Jesus, it was terrifying. They were just doing a web show! Just some silly little sketch! It doesn't make any sense!" He threw up his hands in utter despair.

Mrs. Benson was thoughtful. "I wonder if it could have something to do with the building's water supply. I was making soup, and the water started to froth very strangely and turn a sickly yellow color. I poured it down the sink, of course, and…I could swear I heard the pipes _hissing_. Maybe it's – OOOF!"

The ambulance had hit a pothole, jolting it severely. One of the EMTs yelled at the driver, "What's the deal, Dave? You've gotta be more careful!"

"Don't blame me! It just appeared!"

"Uh huh. One of those 'spontaneous potholes'?"

"Lay off him, Joey," the other EMT said to his partner. "It's not that much farther to the hospital, anyway."

"I just don't like it when something jars the patients, that's all."

The nearby radio squawked into life. "Number 44, we're going to have to divert you to Sacred Heart."

"What?" the EMT called Joey yelled. "That's ten miles away!"

"Sorry, but Mercy is closed to all but the most urgent cases. Their ER is overstretched as it is. Some kids on 12th Avenue opened a fire hydrant to cool off, and…oh, God, you don't want to see it."

He sighed. "All right, fine. Dave, did you hear?"

"Yeah." The driver turned off onto a side street. "I'll try to find us a short cut...what the hell?" He slammed on the brakes. Spencer and Mrs. Benson, not having seat belts, went flying forward and only barely managed to catch themselves before their faces could strike the floor of the vehicle.

"Jesus Christ, what now?" said Joey.

"I'm sorry, guys, but the road is impassable," Dave replied. "We're gonna have to turn back."

Scarcely half a second later, the asphalt beneath them buckled. The right side of the ambulance tilted and slid downward. Mrs. Benson was thrown into Spencer's arms; Spencer's shoulder struck hard against the cold metal behind him, making him grimace with pain.

"Everybody out! Now! The road is collapsing!"

The two EMTs didn't question their driver's warning, bizarre though it was. They opened the back doors and wheeled Gibby out, the dazed Spencer and Mrs. Benson following.

Everywhere along the length of the road, enormous sinkholes were appearing. What had been a perfectly straight, well-maintained stretch of asphalt now resembled the surface of the moon.

"The underground water pipes," gasped Mrs. Benson. "They're corroding and collapsing. And they're bringing the city down with them."

"There's no way we're gonna be able to wheel a stretcher through this," Joey told them.

To all of their surprise, Gibby rasped, "It's fine. I can walk."

"No, dear. You mustn't." Mrs. Benson held him down gently as he attempted to rise. "You're much too weak."

"I'm Gibby Gibson." He smiled at her. "I don't – *cough* - don't know the meaning of the word 'weak'."

Spencer was moved by Gibby's courage. Like Carly, Sam and Freddie, he often found himself treating the pudgy, frequently shirtless boy as a walking joke, a sort of cartoon character made flesh to entertain them. Now he was reminded that Gibby Cornelius Gibson was a real person, experiencing real suffering, but nevertheless finding the will to overcome it.

"Marissa, I don't think we have any other choice." He turned to Gibby. "Lean on me, Gib. I'll help you."

He let the injured boy slide an arm around him. A sudden discomfort made him wince, and he realized, with dismay, that he must have dislocated his left shoulder back in the ambulance. _No time to attend to that now – we've got bigger problems. _

Mrs. Benson stared at him.

"What's wrong?"

"You…you called me by my first name."

"Huh. I did, didn't I?" He tried to appear nonchalant. "I guess I'm feeling informal today."

But it was more than that, and they both knew it. In this dire situation, Spencer no longer had the luxury of maintaining his free-wheeling, childish persona. He and Marissa had to treat with one another on equal terms, as two adults whose only concern was keeping the teen in their care safe.

They came out onto Third Avenue, with Dave, Joey, and the third EMT (Spencer gathered from their conversation that he was called Adam) close behind; Joey held on tightly to the IV stand that was still hooked to Gibby. An immense crowd of people blocked the street, many yelling and gesticulating angrily; their abandoned cars formed a zig-zag pattern that stretched to the right as far as Spencer could see.

On their left was the apparent source of the trouble. The front windows and doors of the Kress IGA supermarket had been smashed, littering the sidewalk with glass shards. A band of looters roamed through the store, grabbing water bottles, juice, soda, liquor – anything liquid – and wheeling it off in shopping carts. Some of the store employees were trying futilely to stop them, but the crowd appeared more interested in getting a piece of the action than in restoring order; greedy hands, some of them children's, plucked at the carts and tried to snatch out bottles and cans. The looters struck at them with sticks; some retaliated by hurling rocks.

"Please!" An elderly woman at the edge of the crowd cried, weeping. "I'm so thirsty! Just give me something to drink! Just a sip! Please, I beg you!"

Spencer remembered that he had a juice pouch in his jeans pocket. Hurriedly he dug it out and offered it to the woman. "Oh, bless you, young man," she said when she had drunk her fill.

"He's got juice!" yelled a nearby burly man in a leather jacket. "You better share, dammit!"

"But that's all I have…"

"Liar! You're holding out on us!" a young girl shrieked.

"Frisk him!" said the first man. A group of half a dozen advanced on Spencer, who was still hampered by Gibby's weight.

Mrs. Benson seized a stick and whipped it about, deploying her fencing skills to devastating effect. The burly man was struck on the cheek, drawing blood. Startled, he jumped backward.

"Run!" she said.

The little band of six fled into an alley. Gibby's wounds were beginning to open up again; every step, Spencer saw, was agonizing for him, but he never broke stride. Only when they were safely ensconced behind a dumpster, and no signs of pursuit were apparent, did the boy collapse and clutch his chest.

The three EMTs bent over him. A moment later, Joey looked up at Spencer and Mrs. Benson, both fear and determination etched on his face. "To _hell _with what the dispatcher told us," he said. "We're getting this kid to Seattle Mercy. No matter what it takes."


	4. A Summons from on High

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

The human mind is a curious thing. When faced with a crisis, it will often refuse altogether to confront reality, and instead seek refuge in trivialities. Right now, for example, Carly Shay had countless questions that could – perhaps should – have been running through her mind: How was Gibby doing? Why hadn't Spencer called her from the hospital to check in, like he promised? Would he and Mrs. Benson be able to return safely through the chaotic streets? What about Sam's mom, who (if her behavior over the past couple of months was any guide) was probably too drunk to realize the danger she faced? But none of those things occupied her mind. Instead, as she, Sam and Freddie stacked furniture to make an improvised defensive wall and carefully inventoried their supplies, she could only think: _Is this what my dad learned how to do in Air Force ROTC? Make fortifications and stuff? I never asked him about what kinds of stuff they teach you there. I know there was a lot of rappelling down walls and running through mud, but beyond that…why didn't I ever ask him about it? The military's always been his life, and I don't have a clue about what he does every day._

_I'm never going to see him again, am I?_

Her mental defenses were breaking down.

_No, I can't cry, not now…no, please not now…_

She felt Sam's comforting hand on her shoulder. "Hang in there, Carls. We're going to get through this the way we get through everything – together."

"Look," said Freddie from across the room, where he was setting up a closed-circuit link to an outside security camera, "I don't want to be Mr. Killjoy, but we really don't have time to waste here. All hell is probably already breaking loose. If the water lines have begun to corrode, the whole infrastructure could be in danger. And once people realize their tap water is poisoned, they're going to look for anyone who's got a bottled water stockpile – and that means us."

Sam eyed him suspiciously. "How do you suddenly know so much about what's happening?"

He looked away. "It's…it's a long story. I'll tell you another time, okay?"

Carly didn't like this one bit. Freddie had always been so open, so honest about what he was thinking and feeling. He might have snapped out of his long depression, but he was still shutting part of himself away from his two best friends.

"Freddie?" she asked tentatively. "What went wrong during your internship?"

"This is not the time to be talking about that," he snapped. Seeing Carly's pained face, he instantly softened his tone. "…What I _mean_ is, it won't help. We can't be worrying about the past right now. The present is the only thing that matters."

Carly opened her mouth to say more, but was interrupted by noises from below. High up though the Shays' apartment was, street sounds could still reach them from time to time; Carly had grown accustomed to it, and mentally filtered out most of the usual clamor – horns, sirens – but this was something different: a popping, crackling noise. A car backfiring, she wondered? No – it resounded again and again, and nearer each time.

It couldn't be-

Sam spoke the word Carly didn't dare to: "Gunfire."

The girls went to the window, ignoring Freddie's pleas for them to ignore the tumult and keep working. In the street beneath them, loose-knit bands of people were exchanging shots, with the police and one another. An overturned Ozarka truck lay on its side, jugs spilling out onto the asphalt. Any time someone attempted to get close enough to retrieve them, he or she was swiftly driven back – or struck down – by a hail of bullets from all sides.

"Oh my God!" Carly cried. "We have to get down there – we have to stop them – "

"You're not thinking straight, Carly," said Freddie as he pulled her away from the window. "There isn't anything we can do for others now. We have to think and act as though we're the only people in the world."

"How can you be so callous?"

"It's not being callous, it's being pragmatic. You understand me, don't you, Sam? Back me up here."

But Sam instead shook her head slowly. "No. No, I can't. I don't like what you're turning into, Benson. I don't like what you're turning _us_ into."

Freddie groaned. "Why do I have to be the only sane one here?"

"I'm not sure 'sane' is the word I'd use to describe you right about now," Sam hissed.

Before the argument could grow more heated, the noise of the sporadic gunfire below was drowned out by the whirl of a helicopter's rotor.

"Are they landing on the roof?" shouted Carly over the ruckus.

A thud above their heads answered her question.

A few moments later, boots echoed in the hallway. A fist banged on the Shays' door.

"Should we answer it?" Carly asked, her voice quavering. The impatient banging continued.

"I don't think we have much of a choice." Sam shot back the deadbolt and opened the door.

The doorframe was nearly filled by an imposing, broad-shouldered man in an impeccably tailored and pressed three-piece suit of charcoal gray. His face was handsome, but rough, as if chiseled from weathered rock. Three uniformed Marines stood behind him, silent, vigilant.

The sharp-dressed man's brown eyes focused like lasers on Freddie. "Mr. Benson. We need you to come with us. Right away."

Before Freddie could respond, Sam, fearless as ever, interposed herself. She was less than half the man's size, yet she stood only inches from him and squared her shoulders as if daring him to make the first move. "Who the hell do you think you are, busting in here and ordering Freddie around like that?"

He withdrew a wallet from his jacket pocket and flashed an ID. "Gilbert Velazquez. Assistant Undersecretary, Biological and Chemical Threats Division, Department of Homeland Security."

Sam snorted derisively. "Is that supposed to impress me?"

"Excuse me, Miss…?"

"Puckett. Sam Puckett."

"…Miss Puckett, but my business is with Mr. Benson only. His expertise is needed on a matter of urgent national security. Step aside, please." His rich, baritone voice was civil and maintained an even tone, but there was a threatening undercurrent to his words that no one in the room failed to notice. It was obvious that this was a man who was used to having his orders obeyed without question.

"I'm not going to 'step aside' until you explain _exactly_ what you and your jackbooted goons want with Freddie-"

"Sam. Enough." Freddie spoke quietly, but with conviction. "What's this about, Mr. Velazquez?"

Moving nothing but his eyes, Velazquez scanned the room; his gaze came to rest on the water bottles stacked neatly in the far corner. "I think you already know the answer to that."

Freddie replied, in a voice barely above a whisper, "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"We have a secure underground facility in Wyoming. Once we arrive there, you can help our scientists devise a plan to combat this…unfortunate turn of events."

"Surely you guys must know that I was just an intern. Dr. Marcus Meacham ran the project. He'd be a lot more helpful to you than I could ever be."

The Marines behind Velazquez shifted their feet and looked down at the floor. Carly noticed that, for a fraction of a second, the bureaucrat's impassive expression changed, his face crossed by a shadow of – sorrow? Remorse? She wasn't sure.

"What? What happened?" asked Freddie. "Have you already contacted Dr. Meacham? Is he all right?"

"I'm afraid not. We went to his home in San Diego, and – it seems that the news of the crisis was too much for him to bear." Velazquez took a deep breath and steeled himself for what he was about to say. "Dr. Meacham hanged himself, several hours before we arrived. His wife found him when she returned from her quilting circle meeting."

Sam gasped. Carly shuddered, as an image of what the horrible tableau must have been like entered her mind. Freddie whispered, "Did he…did he leave a note?"

"Yes. It said, 'Everything that happens from now on is my fault. The blood of innocents is on my hands.'"

And Carly remembered Freddie's words when Gibby was injured: "I've killed him. I've killed everyone."

Velazquez cleared his throat. "I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Benson. I know that you admired Dr. Meacham greatly. But the fact remains that with his…passing…you're now the most knowledgeable individual in the world about Project Albatross. And your country needs your help."

"Of course," Freddie murmured. "I'll do whatever I can."

"Excellent. The helicopter is waiting." Velazquez and the Marines turned to leave.

"Wait," said Freddie.

The bureaucrat halted. "Yes? What's the matter?"

"How are things outside?"

He sighed. "I won't sugarcoat matters, Mr. Benson. It's complete bedlam. The police are overwhelmed; the Governor has mobilized the National Guard, but there's very little that even they can do. This isn't just a Seattle situation; the entire West Coast has been affected."

Freddie considered this for a moment, then set his jaw. "In that case, I want my friends Carly and Sam to come with me."

"Do they have knowledge pertinent to Albatross?" asked Velazquez, raising an eyebrow.

"No. They don't know anything about it. But I'm not going to leave them here to die."

Carly couldn't believe her ears. "What? You just want us to up and leave with you? What about Spencer? And Gibby? For God's sake, what about your **mother?**"

"Guys, there's nothing we can do for them. If they're still alive, they're going to have to fend for themselves."

"This is crazy!" cried Sam. "Look, Benson, _you_ can do whatever the hell you want, but _we're_ staying here."

Freddie ignored her. "Do you understand, Mr. Velazquez? I'll go if, and _only_ if, they go."

The bureaucrat slowly nodded. "I understand, Mr. Benson."

He motioned to the Marines behind him. Advancing swiftly, they seized Carly and Sam and dragged them out the door.

"Let me go!" screamed the blond girl, struggling fiercely in their grip. "Dammit, Freddie, tell them to lay off!"

"…No, Sam. This is for your own good," Freddie replied, and Carly thought she had never seen such sadness in his eyes.

Two minutes later, a helicopter containing one government official, three Marines, and three teenagers – one mournful and silent, the other two bitterly angry – ascended into the swiftly darkening evening sky.


	5. Walking Wounded

**A/N: I have a confession to make. When I picked the name "Seattle Mercy", I had completely forgotten that this was the name of the hospital on **_**Grey's Anatomy**_**. However, since I've already crossed the Rubicon, it seems as though it would be a waste not to have at least a cameo crossover.**

**Also, thanks for the positive reviews. I'm glad that people are enjoying this. Please note that the more reviews I get, the faster I update (hint, hint…)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**iCarly**_**. I don't own **_**Grey's Anatomy**_**. But I **_**do**_** own a toothbrush. And that's got to count for something, right? (Back me up here, people.)**

The journey to Seattle Mercy Hospital – roughly half a mile, as the crow flies, from where the little group had abandoned the ambulance – took them over three hours. Part of the trouble was, of course, Gibby's inability to move quickly, and the wrecked roadways were no small hindrance too; but what really slowed them down was the increasing chaos – not to say madness – as night fell. The sidewalks were crammed with men, women, and children fleeing on foot; teens hurled rocks at streetlights, for no reason other than to vent their frustration; homeless people who had the temerity to ask passersby for a drink were greeted with a hail of punches and kicks; dogs, abandoned by their owners, wandered about sniffing in cracks for water, growling fiercely at anyone who approached them; and a few mad souls, ignoring the state of the roads, were attempting to drive out of the city, thinking that they would be able to find unpolluted water in the countryside before anyone else could reach it. They were, unsurprisingly, not inclined to stop for pedestrians, and Joey, toting Gibby's IV stand and stepping gingerly around the cracks and potholes, was twice nearly run over. Eventually the group, led by Marissa, settled on an incredibly circuitous route which at least had the advantage of allowing them to keep to the shadows the rest of the way. Gibby's condition was visibly worsening, and Spencer wondered bitterly whether they shouldn't have tried for Sacred Heart after all; but then he realized that a hospital ten miles away might as well be on the surface of the moon.

He had never been gladder at any sight in his life than the brightly lit sign that announced _Seattle Mercy Hospital Emergency Room_. Even the logjam of gurneys and limping patients blocking the doors wasn't enough to deter him; with Gibby in tow, he and Marissa practically bulldozed their way through. Doing so severely aggravated his aching shoulder, but he ignored it.

Every square inch of the ER, it appeared, was taken up by people. The staff had set up an impromptu triage station in the waiting area, dividing incoming patients into those with only mild or moderate injuries, those who needed urgent attention, and those who – Spencer shuddered – were beyond help. All the niceties and carefully staged expressions of sympathy that normally attended a patient's death had been dispensed with; with almost mechanical regularity, the nurses pulled corpses from stretchers, zipped them into body bags, and tossed them on an ever-growing pile. The stench was overpowering, and Spencer knew that it was only going to get worse in days to come; the days of baths and showers were over for the foreseeable future – perhaps forever.

A harried physician whose nametag read "Dr. Meredith Grey" gave the new arrival a sideways glance. "Can this kid breathe, Joey?"

"Shallowly, but…yeah. For now," the EMT replied.

"Can he walk?"

"You're damn right I can," Gibby spoke up, a bravely feigned smile on his face.

"Then take a seat. We'll get to you when we can."

"But-"

Ignoring Spencer's protests, Dr. Grey turned away and spoke to the parents of a small, weeping boy with scars on his face and arms.

It was infuriating, but there was nothing to be done about it. Marissa helped Gibby to lower himself into a sitting position on the floor; then she and Spencer slumped against the wall, exhausted. The PA system crackled: "Ward Four, Code Blue! Dr. Shepherd to Ward Four, stat!" Then, moments later, in a bleak, lifeless voice: "Cancel that call. Dr. Shepherd, you're no longer needed."

"I should be with my Freddie," Marissa said. "I can't believe I left him alone at a time like this."

"He's not alone. Carly and Sam are with him. And besides, Freddie's a smart, level-headed kid; he can cope with a crisis."

"You really think so?" Her voice was unsteady, as if she desperately wanted to believe that Spencer's words were true, but couldn't quite bring herself to do so.

"I do. Like mother, like son." Spencer smiled at her. "It's amazing to me how calm you've been through all this. If you weren't here to be my anchor, I'd have been reduced to a babbling wreck a long time ago."

She returned his smile. "You give yourself too little credit, Spencer. You're stronger than you think. And you've done a great job raising Carly on your own."

Spencer thought of his father, the man whose place he had had to take. He hadn't seen Steven Shay in the flesh for – he couldn't even remember how many years it had been. Where was he now? Did he have any idea what his children were going through? Why couldn't he be here, just this once, to comfort his little girl?

Slowly, Spencer spoke. "Marissa, I hope this isn't prying, but…what happened to Freddie's father?"

She shrugged. "Don't worry. I don't mind talking about it. Anyway, he's long gone. Our marriage was strained from the very beginning. I thought having a child would help bring us closer together, but…" A small sigh escaped her lips. "I was so anxious after Freddie was born. I didn't want anything to happen to him, and…it exacerbated my obsessive-compulsive disorder terribly. It was like being trapped in a waking nightmare. I couldn't even leave the house without checking every door ten times to make sure it was locked, unplugging everything electrical, sniffing the stove burners to make sure no gas was leaking. Karl…couldn't take it. One night I came home to find him at the kitchen table with two empty bottles of vodka in front of him, yelling about how 'no man should have to put up with a crazy wife and a whiny brat at the same time'." He walked out, and I never saw him again. Since then, I've been trying everything I can think of to make sure" – a sob caught in her throat – "to make sure Freddie wouldn't leave me too. If he weren't around, I wouldn't have anything left to live for. And now I'm stuck here, and he's all on his own. I don't know whether he's still at the Bushwell, or whether he and Carly and Sam had to escape…I don't even know whether he's still alive…"

Spencer hugged her as she began to weep openly, her tears staining his shirt. He didn't know what he should say at a time like this, but his simple gesture itself seemed to be giving her some comfort.

Suddenly a memory flashed in his mind – the trip to Japan. "Wait a minute, Marissa. Didn't you have a GPS locator installed in Freddie?"

She perked up instantly. "Yes! Yes, I did! Oh, you're brilliant, Spencer Shay!" Withdrawing her iPhone from her purse, she opened up the locator app. "Now I can find out _exactly_ where he-"

She froze in mid-sentence. Her eyes grew as wide as saucers. Her hand clenched the phone in a vise-like grip, draining the blood from her knuckles.

"What's wrong?" Spencer was genuinely frightened now. "Were you able to locate Freddie?"

And then, to Spencer Shay's immense shock, Marissa Benson employed a word that had never before, in her entire life, escaped her lips:

"What the **FUCK** is my **SON** doing in _**WYOMING**_?"


	6. Dum Spiro, Spero

**A/N: This isn't great, but I wanted to update.**

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

Sam could only trace the helicopter's progress through the night by watching the ever-changing patterns of lights below. When they were still near Seattle, a great, tangled spider-web had indicated the sprawl of a major city; as they headed farther and farther away into more rural areas, the lights diminished to thin strands, then occasional clumps on a great black checkerboard. Finally, there was nothing. It was an almost primeval darkness.

She was sorely tempted to slip from the guards' grasp and hurl herself into the night sky. It wasn't that she wanted to die, really; but anything seemed preferable to being smuggled off against her will to God knows where, while her home and family were abandoned to destruction.

She was startled by the sudden noise of Carly's phone. The ringtone – Rod Stewart singing "Forever Young" – meant that it was Spencer calling. The brunette immediately flipped her phone open – only for the Marine corporal next to her to swipe it from her grasp, turn it off, and remove the battery.

"What are you doing?" Carly shouted. "That was my **brother!**"

"No communications permitted, ma'am."

"Fascist thug!" screamed Sam. The Marine made no response, but remained impassive as a statue.

At last the pilot landed, following radioed instructions; no landing lights were visible anywhere. When they disembarked and Sam's eyes adjusted to the scant moonlight, she saw that they were on a vast, dusty plain, cut off to north and east by a jagged mountain ridge speckled with pine trees, but extending seemingly into infinity to the south and west. The only building in sight was a dilapidated wooden farmhouse.

"Okay, it's official," said Carly. "We've actually found the Middle of Nowhere."

"You're not far off the mark, Miss Shay. No one has lived in this little corner of the West since the 1930s; the only regular visitors today are coyotes and deer. And that is just the way we like it."

He led the group toward the farmhouse. The Marines fell into step behind Sam, obviously in a state of high alertness. _What the heck do they have to be worried about out here_? She wondered.

The little farmhouse was, to put it bluntly, a wreck. Cobwebs covered its interior, splayed over decrepit wicker furniture and what appeared to be a smashed radio set, of the type Sam had only seen in old movies. The aura of decay was overpowering – too much so, she felt. Everything here was a little too carefully arranged, as if someone had deliberately set out to fulfill all the expectations the average person has of what abandonment and neglect should look like. And then there were the floorboards – they didn't creak. Indeed, there seemed to be a harder surface – stone, perhaps, or metal – beneath them, preventing them from flexing at all when stepped on.

Velazquez shoved a tattered rug aside with his foot, knelt, and peered into a knothole in a wooden slat. A red light emerged from it and flashed into his eye, playing up and down his cornea while he remained unmoving.

_Okay,_ Sam thought, _I know I didn't pay much attention in history class, but I'm pretty darn sure they didn't have retinal scanners in the 1930s._

…_Wait, is the floor __**sinking?**_

It seemed impossible, but it was true. The entire farmhouse floor had begun to descend slowly into the earth. Sam realized that they were, in fact, standing on the platform of an immense freight elevator – one that made no sound whatsoever. Whatever technology powered it had to be extremely refined. _And this dump is the perfect cover._

Soon the walls of the farmhouse had vanished above their heads, and they were surrounded by nothing but solid rock on all sides. Strings of electric lights every few hundred yards provided illumination; soft music played from hidden speakers: Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 2, third movement. Sam raised an eyebrow at Velazquez.

"It's a long descent, Miss Puckett. We wanted to make it as pleasant as possible." A tiny smile appeared on his lips. "And 'The Girl from Ipanema' just seemed so…cliché."

Nearly twenty minutes (and two more concerti) passed, and the bottom of the shaft had yet to come into view. The anger Sam had felt at her kidnapping – for that was what it was, however much Freddie tried to make excuses – was temporarily pushed aside by impatience and sheer boredom. "How far down does this thing _go,_ dude? I'm hungry, and I have to pee!"

"You're _hungry_, Miss Puckett? Didn't I see you eat three Snickers bars and two Slim Jims in the last _hour?_"

It was Freddie who answered: "She's a bottomless pit, Mr. Velazquez. Get used to it."

He chuckled. "Duly noted. At any rate, we'll be there soon enough. It was essential that the facility be deep enough in the Earth's crust to be unaffected even if the surface immediately above it were struck by multiple nuclear warheads."

"…Nuclear warheads? Just where are we going, exactly?" asked Carly.

"A verbal description would not do it justice. Permit me to show you instead." The elevator at last came to rest, on the floor of a small, circular cavern. The way forward was blocked by two huge blast doors, in front of which four armed Marines stood.

As soon as Velazquez stepped forward, the guards snapped to attention and saluted him. It was curious, Sam thought; for a mere government bureaucrat, the man seemed to command immense respect from everyone he encountered.

"Password, sir?" The highest-ranking of the four, a staff sergeant, said.

"The Four Horsemen."

The sergeant nodded. "Thank you, sir. Permission to speak freely?"

"Of course."

"…I hoped to God I'd never have to hear that password."

"I don't blame you. Any word from your wife?"

"No, sir. Not recently. She and the boys were headed for my parents' ranch outside Cheyenne, since they have their own well there, but I…" For a moment, and a moment only, it seemed that the man might lose his composure. "I can't be certain whether they made it."

"Hope for the best, Sergeant Macintosh. Always hope for the best."

"Absolutely, sir. Thank you, sir." The Marine stepped to one side and pressed his palm onto a biometric scanner. There was a soft whirr, and the great blast doors began to slide apart.

When they had fully opened, Sam's, Carly's, and Freddie's jaws all dropped.

Velazquez stepped through the entryway and motioned for the awestruck teenagers to follow. "Mr. Benson. Miss Puckett. Miss Shay. Welcome to Beta Ark."

The "facility" in which the little group stood would more accurately have been termed a city. On either side of a cavern nearly two hundred feet high, extending for miles into the rock, ultra-modern buildings of glass and steel housed offices, laboratories, and apartments. Technicians in lab coats, uniformed soldiers, and nattily dressed officials like Velazquez walked about briskly or rode in small, open-topped trucks along "streets" laid out in a perfect grid. The elegance of the design was undeniable, yet the overall atmosphere was too crisp, precise, antiseptic – sterile and cold. This place offered no room to human passions, sadnesses, and joys; it was for work and work alone.

"Where…where _are_ we?" Carly whispered. "Where did this place _come_ from? I didn't know anything like this even existed!"

"You weren't _supposed_ to know, Miss Shay. After the first Soviet H-bomb test in 1953, President Eisenhower decided that drastic measures were called for to protect the American way of life. In complete secrecy, with funding from the CIA's off-the-books 'black budget,' he began the construction of four underground sanctuaries in different areas of the continental United States – designated Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Delta Arks – to be used by scientists, military personnel, and government officials in the event of thermonuclear war. The project has been continued and updated under every subsequent administration."

Now that Sam had recovered from her initial shock, the implications of Velazquez' words began to sink in – and she wasn't pleased with them. "Okay, did I miss something here? The Cold War is _over_. It ended before I was even _born_. Why are we still sinking money into this, when millions of people in this country are homeless and starving?"

"The risk of nuclear war may have subsided with the fall of the Soviet Union, Miss Puckett, but this is still a dangerous world. Bioterrorism, chemical warfare, cataclysmic natural disasters – we intended to be ready for anything."

"Still, it's not fair that billions of dollars was siphoned away for decades into something the American people weren't even allowed to know about."

"Fair? Perhaps not. But at this moment, Miss Puckett, and given the crisis we now face, are you really prepared to tell me that you wish all this" – he swept his arm around, indicating the entire vast complex before him – "didn't exist?"

Sam had no answer to that. It took her a moment to collect herself and decide on a new angle of attack. "Well, then, why are they sticking us in _Beta_ Ark? If Freddie's really the last hope for the world, isn't he good enough for Alpha?"

For the first time since their arrival, Velazquez seemed discomfited. He hemmed and hawed. "Er…I'm afraid Alpha Ark has already been occupied."

"Oh, yeah? Who by?"

"The President, his Cabinet, the Speaker of the House, and the Senate Majority Leader."

Sam reddened with fury. "That's nuts! If what you've said is true, Freddie's more valuable to humanity right now than all the politicians and stuffed-shirt functionaries in the world put together! …Um, no offense."

He ignored the accidental slight. "_You_ know that, Miss Puckett, and _I_ know that. But the wheels of government turn in mysterious ways, and elected officials, no matter what their party or ideology, tend to look to their own self-preservation first and foremost. It may be for the best, anyway – Beta Ark was originally intended for a cadre of physicists, biologists, and engineers who would wait out 'nuclear winter' and lead repopulation efforts once the surface was inhabitable again. The scientific facilities here are second to none in the world. Everything you could possibly need for your work will be at your disposal, Mr. Benson."

"And…the water?" Carly asked hesitantly.

"We have a stockpile of food and drink sufficient to support one thousand people for thirty years. Contaminated water will not be an issue for us, I assure you. Now, Mr. Benson, I suggest you use Laboratory 6-C. We've set aside a dedicated workstation for you with all the extant data on Project Albatross."

Sam couldn't hold her tongue any longer. "Okay, what's with that goofy name? What is this 'project' anyway?"

"You mean, what _was_ this project," Freddie murmured sadly. "We named it after the albatross in Samuel Taylor Coleridge's 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner' – the unlucky bird that causes the ancient mariner's ship to be becalmed in the middle of the ocean." He recited:

_Day after day, day after day,  
>We stuck, nor breath nor motion;<br>As idle as a painted ship  
>Upon a painted ocean.<em>

Water, water, everywhere,  
>And all the boards did shrink;<br>Water, water, everywhere,  
>Nor any drop to drink.<p>

"So much of the world's water is saline – undrinkable. Yes, there are desalination technologies, but they're slow and hugely expensive. What Dr. Meacham and I were working on was a quantum leap forward: a nanomachine – a microscopic robot, carefully crafted atom by atom – that would alter seawater at the molecular level. With its self-replicating capability, we could make any percentage we chose of the oceans into fresh, drinkable water in just a matter of days. It would eliminate the problem of thirst – curb the spread of water-borne diseases in developing countries – turn deserts into oases."

"But that's not what happened."

He grimaced. "…No. It all went wrong – I still don't know how it happened. The nanomachines turned any water with which they came into contact into a deadly acid. If they had stayed confined in the test tank, it wouldn't have been a problem, but…they escaped." His eyes were red, his speech painfully halting. "Because…because of me."

"_What?"_

"You heard me. It was my carelessness that caused all of this. The nanomachines leaked out of a piece of equipment_ I_ was supposed to be monitoring and entered the water supply. Now they're spreading all over the world."

Carly and Sam looked at one another, stunned. Each silently beseeched the other to tell her how she should respond to this revelation.

Then, they both began to speak at once.

Carly: "Please don't blame yourself – "

Sam: "You goddamn nitwit, what have you done?"

Carly whirled. "Sam! How can you _say_ that?"

"Say what? The truth? Benson here got in over his head and decided to play God, and now every last person on the planet gets to pay the price for it." Before the Marines could stop her, she lunged forward and grabbed Freddie by the shirt collar, lifting a fist as if about to strike him on the jaw. "What made you think you could handle this? Huh? You're still a kid, Benson! You never should have taken part in this! You never should have gone! I never should have let you go!"

Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, God, _why_ did I let you go? If you'd stayed in Seattle, with your friends, to spend one last summer together, like you should have, then none of this would have happened! I should have messed up your application answers, like I did for that computer camp! Or ripped the fucking application from your hands and torn it up! I knew something terrible was going to happen – I could feel it!"

In his sheer confusion, Freddie momentarily forgot his own feelings of guilt. "Jesus, Sam, you blame _yourself?_"

Carly wanted to intervene, though she had no idea how. She was thoroughly surprised when, instead, Velazquez forestalled her. Gently, but decisively, he pulled Sam away from Freddie. One of the Marines advanced, clearly ready to take the distraught girl away, but the bureaucrat halted him with a slight shake of his head.

"If we must place blame, then consider this. As per DOD policy, my office was informed of Albatross six months in advance. It's true that this particular scenario was unforeseen, but even so, my scientific advisors made it _very_ clear to me that nanotechnology is a new and unproven science, with all the attendant risks that implies. And, after careful consideration, I gave the go-ahead for the DOD to pursue the project."

They stared at him, uncertain what he would say next.

"The ancient Romans had a saying – 'Dum spiro, spero.' 'So long as I draw breath, I have hope.' Yes, people are dying as we speak, and many more will surely die – a fact for which we can all take a share of the blame if we so choose. But you, Mr. Benson, are alive, and in your keen mind may well lie the key to stopping this catastrophe before it engulfs the entire planet. So, dammit, **get to work!"**

Even though Freddie, Sam and Carly had known the bureaucrat only a very short time, they had already sensed that his normal attitude was one of perfect self-control, and the uncharacteristic display of fury frightened them – but it also succeeded in galvanizing Freddie into action. He raced to the laboratory Velazquez had indicated.

"So, what about Carly and me?" Sam asked.

"Well, we didn't anticipate that Mr. Benson would bring an…entourage. I'm afraid that there are no entertainment facilities here for civilians. For the time being, I'll find you an empty apartment."

"But isn't there anything we can do to help?"

"If you want to be of help, Miss Puckett, I suggest that you and Miss Shay do the same thing in your quarters that I shall be doing in my office."

"And that is…?"

"Praying. Praying for a miracle."


	7. Mama Bear and Papa Wolf

**A/N: Sorry if this is a bit short. I'm thinking I may give National Novel Writing Month a whirl, so I probably won't have a lot of time to update, but I'll do my best.**

**This chapter is dedicated to TheLittlestRagamuffin, both for being a faithful and enthusiastic reviewer of my stories in general, and for correctly guessing where this story in particular is going to go.**

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

If there was one thing Spencer had learned during his years living at Bushwell Plaza, it was that no power in heaven or earth could restrain Marissa Benson when she believed her son was in danger. Unfortunately, he was presently tasked with trying to do exactly that.

"Oh, my poor Freddie! I have to go to him! Who knows what's happening to him out in that God-forsaken wilderness!"

Spencer pulled her back into her chair, not without considerable difficulty. "Listen, Marissa, I understand how you feel, but you have to be realistic. We've got no supplies, no means of transportation, and Gibby still needs medical attention. If we run off half-cocked now, we'll just get ourselves killed, and that won't help Freddie, Carly, or Sam one bit."

He saw that the stricken woman had begun to hyperventilate, and, without even realizing it, slipped into the same soothing tone he had always used with Carly when her asthma flared up. "You need to calm down. Just put your head between your legs and take deep, slow, breaths."

"I know how to deal with hyperventilation, you idiot! I'm a _nurse!_" She pushed him away as he reached out to her. "And I know what I'm suggesting, too! I know that it's…impossible…" Her gasping breaths became mixed with sobs. "Damn it, what's _happening_ to me? I can think straight about everything else in the world, but when I think about my Freddie, I fall apart…God, I'm so weak…"

Again Spencer attempted to hold her, and this time she did not resist. "No, Marissa, no. You're not weak, not at all. Or if being frightened for someone you love is enough to make you 'weak,' then God knows we're both in that same boat."

They held one another close in silence for a few moments, each taking comfort in the other's presence. Spencer's stomach growled. "You know, I think I could really do with something to eat. How about you? I bet it would help lift your spirits."

"Well," Marissa said, sniffling, "My blood sugar_ is_ terribly low. Maybe a candy bar?"

He nodded. "Two Snickers coming right up."

As it turned out, they were in luck. Despite the huge number of people currently in the hospital, the snack machine was still almost half full, surprisingly enough. Of the two soda pop vending machines on either side of it, however, one was completely empty, the other down to its last can of Pepsi. Even as Spencer noticed this while he retrieved the candy bars, two men raced to the soda machine and began to jostle one another.

"Get out of the way! I was here first!" cried one, and Spencer, hearing his grating voice and seeing a huge mole on his face, was stunned to realize that it was none other than Lewbert. Something had obviously changed him dramatically. His clothes were covered in filth, his eyes were yellow with jaundice, and his hands shook madly as he tried to insert a dollar bill into the slot.

"Hey, Lewb –" he began, but was cut off by the other man – an African-American who looked to be, if anything, in worse shape than the Bushwell doorman. He elbowed Lewbert out of the way.

"Geez, man, that's an awfully rude way to behave," said Spencer.

"Stay out of this, Shay!" this second man snapped.

Spencer's jaw dropped. "Principal _Franklin_? What on Earth happened to _you_?"

"None of your damn business – hey, what the hell!" Franklin had realized that, while his back was turned, Lewbert was attempting once again to put money into the vending machine slot. "You don't listen, do you, you ugly little bastard? I need a drink worse than you do, so get out of the way before I beat you down!"

"Think you're a big man, huh? Nobody talks like that to Lewbert Sline!" The little doorman took a swing at Franklin's jaw. The principal dodged, grabbed Lewbert's arm, and twisted it. Spencer heard a sickening snap.

Lewbert's horrific cry of pain brought a hospital security guard running. He attempted to separate the two combatants, but they had both already succumbed to sheer rage. Franklin threw Lewbert up against the snack machine, narrowly missing Spencer, and began to beat the smaller man mercilessly about the ribs and stomach; the doorman responded the only way he could, by kicking. It did little good until one lucky shot caught Franklin in the groin. As he stumbled backward, Lewbert seized the chance to leap on him and grapple with him. They crashed about, knocking hapless bystanders to the ground, as the security guard desperately tried to interpose himself and was struck across the face for his pains.

Finally, the battle ended, ironically enough, with both men slamming into the drink machine. It began to rock back and forth. Ignoring Spencer's cry of "Look out!", the combatants continued trading headbutts and knee attacks.

The machine toppled over, pinning them both to the ground and crushing them. They writhed for a moment, then stopped moving.

People screamed. One or two fainted. In the confusion, only Spencer noticed that the lone remaining Pepsi had been jarred loose and was rolling about on the floor. He quickly halted it with his foot, then stuffed it into his pants pocket and slipped away. He knew he was behaving selfishly – there were many people who had need of it far more badly than he or Marissa did – but this was a new world, and the old codes of behavior were quickly becoming obsolete.

He returned to the waiting area to find Marissa hugging a stout black woman in medical garb and talking excitedly. "Oh, God, it's so good to see you!"

"Good to see you too, 'Rissa. It's been too long. How's your boy?"

"Freddie's – Freddie's fine. He's…away right now." Seeing that Spencer was back, she straightened up. "Miranda, this is my…friend, Spencer Shay. Spencer, this is Dr. Miranda Bailey."

They shook hands. The woman took a glance at a clipboard she was carrying. "I see that you two brought in a Gibby Gibson for treatment?"

"Yes. Yes, he's right there." Marissa gestured to where the injured boy squatted on the floor, gasping and clutching his burned chest. "Oh, Miranda, please take good care of him."

"I'll do what I can." Dr. Bailey sighed heavily. "We're more swamped now than we've ever been before. And they've stopped letting us scrub up, since clean water is so scarce. God knows how long…" – she realized that others were staring at her, and lowered her voice – "…how long it will be before infection starts spreading."

When she and an orderly had taken Gibby off behind a curtain to examine him, Spencer turned to Marissa. "I've decided something. It's probably crazy of me, but I've made up my mind."

She said nothing, but looked at him with a mixture of nervousness and hopeful anticipation.

"There's nothing for me here anymore. Once Gibby's patched up, I want to go find the others. With you."

"I thought you just said-"

"That it's impossible? That we wouldn't survive? Yeah, and I was probably right. But I'd rather take a million-to-one chance of being reunited with them than stay here in this hellhole of a city and die like an animal."

"But you don't even know for certain whether Carly is with Freddie! What if she's still trapped at the Bushwell?"

"Do you really think Freddie would let her and Sam stay there if he thought they were in danger?"

"No, but you should make sure. At least try calling her."

He flipped open his phone, but he was not hopeful. Cell service had been spotty at best for the last several hours; Marissa's frantic phone calls to Freddie had all failed to get through. To his surprise, though, he managed to get a connection.

"Hey, Carls, where are-"

It went dead.

"Damn it!" He struck the arm of his chair in frustration.

Now it was Marissa's turn again to be the reasonable one of the pair. "Can you check to see what cell tower relayed the call? At least then we'd have a general idea of where she is."

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so." He fiddled with his phone for a moment. "Looks like the tower was…" He looked up, smiling. "Just outside Cody, Wyoming. They're all together."

And even though the two adults had no idea what the future might hold, the knowledge that the inseparable trio was still looking out for one another gave them a fresh sense of hope.


	8. Katy Bar the Door

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating. I had a ton of schoolwork to get through, and got sick as well. Looks like no National Novel Writing Month for me, alas.**

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

"NOOOOO!" Sam Puckett cried.

"Shhh. It'll be okay, Sam. I promise," said Carly, holding her friend close.

"But…" she blubbered, "…but…there's…no…TV!"

Strictly speaking, it wasn't true. The living quarters to which the two girls had been assigned did have a closed-circuit link to an array of cameras that covered every inch of the surface above them for a ten-mile radius. But neither broadcast networks nor cable were available, and the prospect of days, perhaps weeks, without _Girly Cow_ or _Celebrities Underwater_ had Sam on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"You have to be realistic, Sam. Probably almost all the channels are off the air now, and the ones that aren't will just be showing emergency bulletins and that kind of stuff. You're not missing anything."

"But it's the _principle_ of the thing! No member of the Puckett family should be denied access to television! It's our constitutional right!"

Carly sighed. "You really should have taken Civics, you know that?"

In fact, though, she secretly sympathized with Sam. Like the complex as a whole, their little apartment had clearly been engineered with a view to utility rather than comfort. It was almost Spartan in its simplicity: a bunk bed, a desk with a computer terminal, a single bookcase, a large television screen built into the wall connected to the closed-circuit cameras, and, beneath it, a bank of instruments recording seismic, atmospheric, and other data, with a video intercom beside them. All the furniture was of solid, unpainted steel, bolted to an impeccably polished white tile floor. The ceiling and three of the four walls were completely bare, painted in a soft beige shade that was no doubt intended to be soothing to occupants hard at work in time of crisis, but struck the two girls as mind-numbingly boring.

Carly perused the bookcase. "There's gotta be something here that we can read. Let's see…_Tom Brown's Schooldays…Peyton Place…_Winston Churchill's_ A History of the English-Speaking Peoples…Nikita Khrushchev and His Secret Plan for World Domination_…I'm guessing keeping the reading material current wasn't a top priority."

Sam, meanwhile, was looking under the lower bunk bed. "Hey, Carls! A chess set!"

Carly raised a quizzical eyebrow. "I didn't think you were the chess-playing type."

"Hey, don't sell me short. Mama can play any game there is, and Mama plays to win." Sam opened the folding chessboard and removed the pieces. They were surprisingly ornate, hand-carved from maple wood. "At least there's _one_ thing here that's not completely soulless."

True to her word – and much to Carly's amazement – Sam proved to be an extremely adept chess player. She was always on the attack, keeping Carly off balance and preventing her from formulating any coherent counter-strategy.

"Why didn't you ever tell Freddie you played chess? It's something you two have in common."

"Because…" The blonde sighed. "Because he's got this whole fixed image of me as Miss Tough Girl, and I don't want to look all weak and nerdy in front of him, okay? The geek stuff is his bag, not mine."

Carly shook her head. "I swear, I will _never_ understand you two. Always making obstacles to sabotage yourselves."

She studied the board, wrinkling her forehead in concentration. If she was to have any chance, she would have to use Sam's aggressiveness against her. Carefully she moved her bishop into an exposed position.

"…You sure you wanna do that, Carls?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Okay then…" Sam immediately took it with her queen. Carly just grinned.

It wasn't until a few moves later that Sam realized she had put herself into an untenable position. With Carly swiftly advancing, the blonde girl sighed and tipped over her king as a token of submission. "You got me, Carls. I didn't think you'd be willing to sacrifice a piece like that."

"One thing my dad always told me, Sam – part of being a soldier is knowing when to accept small losses in return for a bigger gain."

A klaxon sounded through the complex. Carly and Sam went to the window and watched as servicemen and women, wearing the uniforms of all the branches of the Armed Forces, hustled about through the grid of "streets".

Carly flicked a switch on the intercom. "Mr. Velazquez? What's going on?"

The bureaucrat's tiny image appeared on the screen. "Sorry, Miss Shay, no time to talk now." He turned to someone standing off screen to his right. "Colonel, how many are there?"

"At least twenty, sir," the invisible soldier replied. "Well-organized, too. They didn't just stumble on this site by chance."

On the larger TV screen, the image flicked to a view of the immediate environs of the farmhouse. A little band of people, wielding pickaxes, shovels, and a jackhammer, were approaching, looks of grim determination on their faces. Their leader, a short but powerfully built man in his forties with a weathered face and acid-scarred hands, kicked in the door and motioned to the others to enter.

The scene changed to a camera in the farmhouse interior. While the leader set up the jackhammer, a woman of about thirty in dirty overalls began tearing up the floorboards with a crowbar, revealing the metal beneath. As she worked, breathing heavily, Carly could see her blackened, swollen tongue –a telltale sign of extreme dehydration. Two young boys – neither more than seven years old – stood behind the woman, watching fearfully.

"Dear God. Is that _Macintosh's _family?" said Velazquez.

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"Dammit, he wasn't supposed to tell them! And they were supposed to be headed to Cheyenne!"

"Well, sir, it's hard to keep your family from having suspicions about what you do. His wife must have doubled back and followed him when we called him up."

The bureaucrat buried his head in his hands. "This isn't going to end well, is it?"

There was a pause; then, the offscreen soldier spoke slowly, hesitantly. "You're thinking of implementing-"

"Yes!" Velazquez snapped. "We don't have a choice."

Carly couldn't hold her tongue any longer. "But, sir, they can't possibly break through. And even if they do, how can they get down the elevator shaft?"

"_That _is not the _point_, Miss Shay. Once they're certain of this facility's existence, they'll summon others. We have enough on our hands without beating off waves of would-be intruders."

"But they just want water, don't they?"

"_Everyone_ wants water now. We're not running a charity, and our supplies are not infinite. Anyway, we can do far more good by solving the Albatross problem, and that requires that we be left completely undisturbed."

On the screen, the leader of the group was yelling into a walkie-talkie.

"You see? As I said. They're already calling for reinforcements." The bureaucrat stiffened, steeling himself. "Colonel Winters, activate protocol Katy Bar the Door."

There was an audible gulp. "Y-yes, sir." After a few moments' pause: "Retinal scanner disabled. Second set of blast doors shut."

"That's all?" murmured Sam. "That's not so bad-"

"Begin phase 2."

The camera view changed once again, to an outdoor vista. In the sky at the very top of the image, Carly spotted the thin trails of white smoke that she knew were produced by jet engines.

"Bravo and Charlie squadrons are in the air, sir."

"…Do it."

There was an almost infinitesimal tick on the seismometer in Carly and Sam's quarters, but they themselves felt nothing, so deep was Beta Ark located. They could guess what had happened, though. For a burst of static filled the screen; and when it cleared, a bird's eye view of what had been the farmhouse showed nothing but a smoldering crater.

"The door is barred, sir," said Winters.

"MURDERER!" Sam screamed. "How _could_ you-"

Velazquez shut off the intercom.

Sam turned and looked at Carly for a long moment. She said nothing, but Carly saw that she was shaking, trying to contain the anger swelling up inside her.

When she finally spoke, the words were low and hissing.

"Small sacrifices for the greater good, huh?"

And she dashed the chessboard to the floor.


	9. Manna from Heaven

**A/N: My apologies for the long hiatus; things have been exceedingly crazy in my neck of the woods. I'll try to update more frequently from here on out. Also, if you're reading this and haven't yet left a review, please do so; I could really use the motivation. (Heck, I'll even take flames.)**

**Disclaimer: still don't own.**

The turning of surface water to acid worldwide – a phenomenon that the news media had now dubbed "the Great Transformation," but which was referred to by most people, not without cause, simply as "the end" – brought with it catastrophic upheavals to every aspect of human society. But for Spencer Shay and Marissa Benson, huddled in the Seattle Mercy waiting room, frightened and increasingly desperate, there was no such global perspective to be had. They had only one index available to them at this moment of how drastically things had changed – but it was a telling one. For perhaps the first time ever in the history of Seattle – a city subject to drizzles and downpours nearly every day of the year, where umbrellas are as essential a part of one's daily attire as a shirt or shoes, and a cloudless sky is more prized than gold – an exultant cry went up: "Oh, praise God! It's **raining!**"

The slowness of the hydrological cycle meant that the condensed water droplets now falling from the early-morning clouds had been absorbed into the air days before, and so were free from the horrible taint of the nanomachines. As soon as this became clear, the scramble began. Hundreds of people (for the waiting room, and indeed the hospital as a whole, had long since grown as tightly packed as a cattle car) shoved, elbowed, and even trampled one another trying to get through the doors and out into the cool, cleansing shower. Spencer and Marissa, sorely tempted though they were to join the crowd, quickly decided that discretion was the better part of valor and flattened themselves against the wall while the wave of humanity surged past them.

It took only minutes for the entire building to all but empty out, filling the parking lot with jubilant, dancing, and very wet people. The two residents of Bushwell Plaza found themselves momentarily alone in the waiting room; then, one of the curtains screening off the triage area was shoved aside, and two more people joined them: Gibby Gibson, heavily bandaged around the chest and ribs and walking with a halting, unsteady gait, but still in his customary good spirits; and a profoundly weary Dr. Miranda Bailey.

Marissa ran to Gibby and hugged him – carefully, so as not to cause him pain, but joyfully nonetheless. Her eyes filled with tears. Spencer, not being quite as comfortable with open displays of emotion, silently clapped a hand on Gibby's shoulder. The boy grinned. "Why are you guys so shocked to see me? Haven't you learned by now that nothing can keep the Gibster down?"

"You're telling me," Spencer replied, and suddenly found himself fighting back tears of his own. Embarrassed, he turned away quickly to Dr. Bailey. "Looks like you did a good job, Doc."

Dr. Bailey had given her word to Spencer and Marissa that she would give Gibby Gibson the best and most attentive care she possibly could, and she was not the type to renege on a promise if she could help it. Unfortunately, for most of that endless night she had been surrounded by such utter chaos that it was nearly impossible to focus on any one patient. It was bad enough that the hospital was swamped with the heaviest patient load it had ever known, but Mercy was also short-staffed; some of the attending physicians, like Derek Shepherd, had been unable to reach the hospital over the decaying roads, while Cristina Yang, overwhelmed by the endless stream of burn victims, was now huddled in a corner of the ICU, sobbing. Miranda didn't entirely blame her, but it still made matters that much more difficult.

The intricate system of division of labor that normally allowed the hospital to run smoothly had completely broken down. Neurosurgeons were emptying bedpans; pediatric oncologists mopped the floors. And Miranda Bailey, like all her colleagues, was juggling a dozen tasks at once. Nonetheless, whenever she had a free moment, she had returned to the unswervingly cheerful boy behind Curtain Three. Now, seeing the relief and joy in her old friend Marissa's face, all the grueling effort seemed to be worth it.

"He should be all right," she told Spencer, thrusting a bottle of pills into his hand. "This is a powerful antibiotic – make sure he takes one every four hours. There's still a risk of post-operative infection, and I don't want to take any chances."

He slipped the bottle into his pants pocket. "I-we don't know how to thank you. How much is the bill? We'll pay twice whatever it is. Three times-"

She raised a hand to cut him off. "Money doesn't matter. Not anymore. If you want to pay me back, you can do it by keeping _him_-" she gestured at Gibby- "safe. Can't have all my good work going to waste, after all." She gave him a sly wink.

"You have my word," Spencer Shay replied, and he had never meant any statement more in his entire life.

"Where will you go?"

Marissa at last forced herself to release Gibby. "East. Wyoming. We're going to find my son and his friends – somehow. You should come with us – things are only going to get worse here."

Miranda sighed deeply. "…Yeah, I know. But my place is with my patients, and I can't abandon them now." As she studied their anxious and care-worn faces, she came to a sudden decision. "Follow me."

The little group descended by a back staircase into the dark bowels of the hospital. Miranda led them through a maze of increasingly small side corridors to a little utility closet, its lock rusted from long disuse. She forced it open with a grunt.

Marissa gasped. Inside the closet, barely visible in the dim light, was a pyramid of gallon jugs of water.

"Take some," Miranda said.

"But…no. We-we can't," stuttered Spencer. "You're going to need these. For surgery and scrubbing and all of that."

"This stuff's not clean enough to meet surgical standards – but it's drinkable. And we can spare a couple of jugs. God knows you're going to need it, where you're headed."

Wordlessly, Marissa embraced her.

/

At 6:30 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time, as a heavy rain continued to fall, the engine of an abandoned blue Pontiac roared into life. Marissa eased the massive vehicle out of the alleyway behind Seattle Mercy and into a side street, maneuvering skillfully around the many potholes. Spencer rode shotgun; in the back seat, Gibby, covered with blankets, slept, the water jugs at his feet. In the rear-view mirror, the rapidly diminishing figure of Dr. Miranda Bailey waved to them, in what everyone involved knew would almost certainly be a final goodbye.

At 6:42 A.M., Brian Telford, age eight, who was splashing in a puddle in the Mercy parking lot, suddenly yelped in pain: "Mommy! My ankle burns!"

Five seconds later, his mother Corinne shrieked as the raindrops – clear a moment ago, but now a sickly yellow color – seared her sleeveless arms.

Ten yards away, nurse practitioner Joe Myslivecek, his mouth wide open to drink down the rain, began to flail about madly, clutching his stomach and uttering dreadful rasping sounds. By the time his colleagues reached him, he lay in a heap on the asphalt, dead.

What had, so soon before, been a stampede _out_ of the hospital now became a dash back _in_, as the terrified patients and staff sought any cover they could find.

The grace period was over. The clouds were infected now.

The days of death from the sky had begun.


	10. HunterKiller

**A/N: This isn't my best work, but I wanted to update.**

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

It was bad enough that Freddie Benson had to fight the clock. Now he had to do battle with his own body as well.

When he first began work, he had sustained himself with cup after cup of coffee. But he built up a tolerance all too soon, and was forced to switch to Red Bull. Now, after six days without sleep, even that was failing him. With an arm that felt as heavy as if it were encased in lead, he swept half a dozen cans of the foul-tasting stuff from his workbench to the floor. His eyelids drooped, disobeying his panicked commands for them to stay open. Each step was an agony. As if that weren't bad enough, Freddie had begun to experience the visual and auditory hallucinations that so often follow in the train of sleep deprivation. Ghostly voices whispered murderous threats to him, making his skin prickle; strange multicolored phantasms flitted about at the edges of his vision.

Around him, a ring of water tanks bubbled furiously, as high-pressure oxygen was fed through them in an attempt to simulate the ocean currents and predict the spread of the nanomachines. Test tubes containing their latest attempts at a molecular counteragent seethed atop Bunsen burners, while vats of grey gelatin served as the final resting place of their many, many failures thus far; molecular engineering was a difficult science even under the best of circumstances, and nothing they tried seemed to work – any sample of water that had been transformed remained acidic, and resisted all efforts to neutralize it or raise its pH. On the wall, a huge plasma screen displayed a constantly changing world map, with areas known to be infected marked in red. Lately, as his zeal for work had begun to flag, Freddie often found himself staring zombie-like at the screen, watching the crimson patches slowly spread and combine. It was as if the world were slowly bleeding to death – and he couldn't do a thing to stop it.

He wondered about the human cost behind those soulless graphics. Velazquez, obviously worried that a constant stream of bad news would destroy morale, was extremely reluctant to release any information, but from the dribs and drabs the bureaucrat did let slip, and conversations Freddie occasionally overheard between the military officers who prowled the complex, he had been able to piece together something of a picture of the global chaos. The entire Pacific Rim was devastated, uninhabitable. A mass migration (a dignified name for what was, in fact, a panicked flight) was taking place: inhabitants of the west coasts of North and South America were heading eastward, while in Asia the coastal cities of Russia and China were emptying into the Siberian tundra and the Gobi desert. This last was, he thought, the supreme irony: men and women dying of thirst, having nowhere to take refuge except one of the driest spots on the surface of the Earth. Bowing to necessity, the U.S. government had effectively abandoned Hawaii to its fate. Japan, Indonesia, and Malaysia had fallen completely silent days ago; only a few hardy souls in the Australian Outback, where a lack of water had been the normal _modus vivendi_ from time immemorial, continued broadcasting, hoping to prove to the world that humanity was not completely gone from the largest of the world's oceans. For a time, the countries of Europe, Africa, and the Middle East had smugly thought themselves immune to the chaos – but then the acid rains began to fall, and it was clear nowhere on Earth was safe.

It would have helped so much – so very much – if he could have leaned on his friends for moral support. But the fact was that ever since the mass slaughter on Velazquez' orders, Sam had withdrawn completely into herself. She spoke to no one, only remained in her apartment and lashed out angrily at any attempts to cheer her up. Carly had moved to different quarters; she visited Freddie every once in a while to offer encouragement, but it was painfully clear to him that she was weighed down by her own private anxieties.

He had long since outgrown his juvenile puppy-dog crush on Carly Shay, but to his surprise, his ceasing to see her only as a potential girlfriend had actually opened his eyes to her immense value simply as a friend. She was his rock – no, more than that; she was the whole _group_'s rock, keeping both the passionate and temperamental Sam and the awkward, introverted Freddie from drifting out of control. He felt he could trust her with anything, and he longed to confide in her all his self-doubts, his fears, and his crushing guilt. But he would not dare to burden her now. Not when she was in such a state herself.

As suddenly as if she had heard and responded to his thoughts, Carly appeared in the doorway. Even through the fog of his weariness, he managed a small smile – and then a genuine chuckle, as he realized that the demure young girl was wearing oversized combat fatigues. "Why-"

She held up a hand to cut him off. A blush spread across her cheeks. "It wasn't my choice. My dress _really_ needed to be washed, and there wasn't exactly a whole bunch of women's clothing to choose from around here."

Velazquez followed her in. It amazed Freddie that the bureaucrat, despite having slept as little as he himself, still looked impeccable.

"I thought Miss Shay's presence might lift your spirits, Mr. Benson. I also requested Miss Puckett to come, but she was…reluctant."

Freddie's heart sank. "How is she, Carly? Tell me straight."

Carly hemmed and hawed. "It's not anything big. She'll get over it pretty soon, I think. You know Sam and her moods…"

"Please don't lie to me, Carly," he said, softly but firmly.

The brunette's shoulders slumped. A look of utter despair appeared on her face. "…She's just…mad at the world. Mad at you, me, everyone and everything. I don't know what to do, Freddie." Tears came to her eyes. "Oh God, Freddie, I just don't know what to do…"

He hugged her, feeling her thin body shudder with her sobs. She buried her face in his lab coat. "I want Spencer. I want my dad. I want to go _home_."

Immediately Freddie thought of his own longing for his mother. He held Carly tighter. "Has the Air Force sent any word about your dad?"

"No. Nothing. The last I heard from him, he was on a nuclear submarine somewhere. I don't even know what an Air Force officer is _doing_ on a freaking submarine!"

Velazquez cleared his throat. "I took the liberty of checking on your father, Miss Shay. He is indeed on board the USS _South Dakota_, as part of a joint operation by the intelligence agencies of the various Armed Forces. They're currently on patrol in the Indian Ocean, operating under sealed orders."

"So, he's alive…just waiting to rain down fiery death on the world whenever the President gives him the order," said Carly with a bitter laugh.

"We have no intention of exacerbating the current crisis, Miss Shay," the bureaucrat replied sternly. "Anyway, the _South Dakota_'s not that type of sub."

"You mean she doesn't carry nuclear missiles?" Carly breathed a relieved sigh.

"No. She's an SSN – a hunter-killer."

The brunette shivered. "Now _there_'s an ominous sounding name."

"It just means that she's designed to seek out and neutralize enemy SSBNs before they can release their payload. She's sleek, swift, and deadly – built for sub-to-sub combat, and nothing else."

"Wait a minute…" Freddie said slowly. His all but numb brain was suddenly awakened by the spark of an idea.

"What is it, Mr. Benson?"

"We've been going about this the wrong way. All we've been doing is looking for a way to reverse the nanomachines' effect, but we're not going to find that – not soon enough, anyway. What we should do is design a counter-weapon that will devour all the existing acid-generating nanomachines before they can replicate and do more damage, then self-destruct harmlessly. It should be simple enough. And even if it doesn't wipe them all out, it'll buy us precious time."

"You mean, make a hunter-killer nanomachine," said the bureaucrat, his eyes widening as comprehension dawned.

"Exactly."

"And you think you can manage it?"

Freddie grinned. "With this team of geniuses backing me up? I can manage anything."

"In that case, Mr. Benson, I'll leave it in your capable hands. Anything you need – just ask." Velazquez gave Freddie an encouraging pat on the shoulder and left the room.

"Freddie Benson, you are officially brilliant." Carly kissed him on the cheek. "Good luck."

Filled with new vigor, Freddie barked orders to his fellow scientists. _We may have a chance. We may actually have a chance._

/

Safely ensconced in his soundproof office, Velazquez picked up a secure line to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The conversation was brief, and served only to confirm the rumor that the bureaucrat had already heard.

The infection had spread to the Indian Ocean. The ensuing panic toppled the government of India; as public order dissolved, an armed mob descended upon the docks of Mumbai, plundering every ship in harbor. The _South Dakota_ had been sent as part of a Navy flotilla to evacuate American citizens.

Now, every vessel in that flotilla had disappeared, as completely as if they had never existed.


	11. It Runs in the Family

**A/N: Reviews are, as ever, most welcome.**

**Disclaimer: still don't own.**

There were many criticisms that could be made of the aging Pontiac Marissa Benson and Spencer Shay had "borrowed" for their road trip. It handled with all the precision of a double-decker bus, it had no shock absorbers to speak of, its headlights were sporadic at best; it was, to put it bluntly, a gas-guzzling, pollutant-spewing monstrosity. But all those shortcomings were outweighed by one great advantage: the damn thing was _durable._

It had sustained all manner of damage since they left Seattle. Bad roads were less of a problem in the open country than in the city, but the acid rains that now fell periodically had dogged them for days; wolves and coyotes, driven berserk by hunger and thirst, laid siege to the car at night, and even more deadly _human_ predators popped up now and then. The doors were pockmarked with bullet holes, and a piece of wood was still lodged in the front bumper from when Marissa had been forced to run an impromptu roadblock set up by a group of water-thieves near the Montana-Idaho border. Yet, somehow, the car still ran. It was a miracle for which both adults were more thankful than words could express.

Gibby had been taking his antibiotic regularly, and showed no signs of infection, to Marissa's immense relief. Still, it pained him just to move, and she had strictly forbidden him from any physical exertion for the foreseeable future.

As they made their way through western Wyoming, both their gas tank and their water jugs were running low. Most of the small towns through which they passed now were utterly deserted, save for the occasional feral dog; dead cattle littered the brown grass of the countryside, filling the air with their toxic stench. The August sun beat down on them mercilessly.

Spencer, still riding shotgun, looked back to see that Gibby was dozing. He turned to Marissa, deliberately keeping his voice low so as not to wake the injured boy.

"How much longer can we keep going?"

"I can't say," she replied, similarly muted. "This thing's practically running on fumes as it is. Maybe three, four miles?"

Spencer groaned. "God, I wish we could find an open gas station…hey, what's that?"

A few hundred yards down the road, a man stood in the road, waving a handmade red flag wildly back and forth. When they drew within earshot, they heard his increasingly hoarse shouts: "Gas! Gas and refreshments! Over here!"

He pointed to the side of the road. There stood a Shell gas station-cum-convenience store, with a second story containing what looked to be apartments. Newspapers were blowing about, trash and broken glass littered the parking lot – but, to the two adults' amazement, the pumps were lighted up, and apparently working. A short, heavyset middle-aged woman in an apron stood next to the nearest pump, looking eager to please.

"Could be a trap of some kind," Marissa muttered, when her initial shock had subsided.

"Yeah, but can we really afford to turn down an opportunity at this point?"

She sighed. "I suppose you're right."

As she eased the car to a stop near the pumps, the man approached them, a friendly grin plastered on his face. "Sorry for the dramatic welcome, but it's so rare that we see other people nowadays, I didn't want to take any chance that you would keep going and pass us by."

"We appreciate it, believe me," Spencer answered. "This is Marissa Benson, Gibby Gibson –" he indicated the now wide-awake boy in the back seat – "and my name's Spencer Shay."

"Nice to meet you." The man shook Spencer's hand vigorously. "I'm Max Dirshlitt, and this here is my wife Vesta. We run the place, and live up on the second story."

"Dirshlitt?" Spencer said uneasily. "You wouldn't happen to be any relation to a _Nora_ Dirshlitt from Seattle, would you?"

The man's face instantly darkened. "Do _not_ speak that harlot's name in our presence! We will have nothing to do with her!"

Seeing Spencer draw back in confusion and fear, he softened his tone. "Sorry about that, Mr. Shay. It's something of a sore point with us. The girl you're talking about is – or, I should say, _was_ – our daughter. After she shamed us by that horrible incident with the iCarly crew, we disavowed her and moved out here to start over fresh."

"That…seems awfully harsh."

Max Dirshlitt smiled – or rather smirked, in a distinctly off-putting way. "It's always difficult for outsiders to understand the ways of us Dirshlitts. Trust me, what we did was for the best – for us and for her. But enough about us – you folks need tending to. How about some iced tea?"

Those five lovely words were enough to suppress all of Spencer and Marissa's qualms about the situation for the time being. They eagerly began to follow the Dirshlitts through the sliding glass doors of the store.

Spencer realized that Gibby was hanging back. "What's the matter, Gib? Don't feel up to walking around just now?"

"It's not that. I just…something's not right here."

Spencer lowered his voice. "Look, I know that the Dirshlitts are a little…odd. But the fact is, beggars can't be choosers."

"I know, but still…" The pudgy boy's face contorted in a fit of indecision.

"I tell you what, Gib. You stay here, and I'll bring you down a cup in a second, okay?"

"Yeah." Gibby relaxed, but only slightly. "Yeah, that sounds good. I'll just wait outside in the car." Spencer turned to go.

"Hey, wait!"

The force of Gibby's cry startled him. "What's wrong?"

"Leave me the keys, will you? I'd like to listen to some tunes – if I can find any."

Perplexed by the urgency in the boy's voice, Spencer tossed him the keys. As he entered the store and mounted the back stairs, he heard the engine start – but no noise from the radio, curiously enough.

The Dirshlitts' living quarters were grimy and dim, lit only by candles in the corners despite the presence of working electricity. A bed stood against the far wall, a rough-hewn table with low chairs in the center, a potbellied stove, ancient fridge and sink behind them. The only decoration in the room was a curious brick mantel with a statue atop it of some dreadful, four-eyed deity, his muscular body wreathed in flames. Inanimate object though it was, its horrific grimace and broad fangs repulsed Spencer. He was happy to see that the only unoccupied chair faced away from it.

Marissa was sipping her tea decorously, though the wolf-like appetite in her eyes told Spencer that it was all she could do to keep from downing the entire pitcher in one gulp. He knew the feeling. Max and Vesta watched their guests, that same insufferable smirk on both their faces. Had Spencer not been so grateful for that hospitality, he would have had the urge to smack them for their smugness. _What the hell do they have to be so pleased about, anyway?_

But first things first. He drank. The tea was strong and rich – flavored with lemon, a dash of mint, and something else, an acrid tang that he couldn't place. It made him cough a little, but no matter; it might as well have been the nectar of the gods, he was so thirsty.

At last he set down his empty glass. Never had he known such contentment. He was refreshed, relaxed – almost ready to lie down and go to sleep right then and there. In fact, that was a very tempting idea. There wasn't really such a rush to get back on the road, was there? They could spare the time for a nap. So nice – to rest his head – to slip into oblivion…

Why was his vision growing blurry?

Marissa spoke, her words slurred and difficult to understand. Her head swayed from side to side. "Whasinthis? Somethin'…somethin' kinda funny tastin'…"

"Cyclobenzaprine and clonazepam," Vesta Dirshlitt replied, her smile seemingly glued onto her face. "My personal recipe."

"But…but thassa mussel…muscle relaxant, anna…a…"

"Sedative? Right you are, dearie! Are you in the medical profession?"

"Imma…Imma nurse…" Marissa keeled forward, her forehead striking the table, then slumped backward and fell from her chair, landing in a heap on the floor. Spencer tried to rise and help her, but his legs buckled beneath him. The whole world spun.

"Help…" he managed to vocalize. "Help us, please…"

"Oh, we'll help you," said Max, nodding vigorously. "We'll set you free."

"I don't…dontunnerstan…"

"Your souls are trapped on this earthly plane. Once we liberate them, our Master will show us mercy. He'll undo the blight upon the land."

"Wha…?"

"Don't you see?" Max reached behind the statue on the altar – for that, Spencer realized with the last of his fading powers of concentration, was what the "mantel" really was – and picked up a black stone knife. "All this destruction and suffering – the demons in the water – it's because we offended our Master. We broke our oaths to Him, we didn't raise Nora in His ways. But now we can make it right. Our Master will accept your souls into His bosom, and in return for that gift He'll lift the curse."

_My God,_ Spencer thought. _He's utterly mad. They're __**both**__ mad._ He summoned every ounce of strength and tried to get to his feet, but it was useless. He began to crawl to the door instead. Marissa showed no signs of life at all.

"Why do you seek to flee?" asked Vesta, genuine puzzlement in her voice – and disappointment as well. "Why would you reject our gift?" She planted her booted foot between Spencer's shoulder blades, pinning him down.

Max approached with the knife. "We'll set you free first, then your lady friend, and then go down and attend to the boy. You can all go to the Master together!"

"No…no…" Spencer gasped.

Ignoring him, Max began to mutter to himself in a strange tongue. With both hands wrapped around the knife's hilt, he raised it high to strike.

A crowbar slammed into his rib cage. He howled in pain and crumpled.

Spencer's muddled vision could just make out a shirtless, stocky figure standing in the doorway.

"Gib…Gibby?"

Vesta Dirshlitt shrieked like a harpy and leapt at the interloper, but Gibby was too fast for her; he swept his impromptu weapon around in an arc and struck her in the back of the knee. In an instant she was lying beside her husband, cursing Gibby roundly but unable to stand and make good on her threats.

The boy hefted Spencer and Marissa up. Spencer was reminded that he concealed considerable muscle behind his pudgy exterior. "C'mon, guys. We have to get out of here. Now."

Marissa had regained consciousness, barely. "Huh? Whasgoin' on?"

"No time to explain." Gibby slung her over his shoulders fireman-style and hustled her down the stairs to the car, its engine still running, then returned and did likewise for Spencer. Once they were safely in the back seat, he shifted gears, pressed the accelerator to the floor, and sped away.

"I knew something bad was going to happen," he explained, his eyes glued to the road. "Never trust a Dirshlitt, that's my motto. Well, _one _of my mottoes, anyway. That's why I wanted to keep the engine running, just in case."

"You're awesome, Gib," Spencer murmured through benumbed lips.

"Hey, no problem, Spence. Just watching out for you like you've been watching out for me-AAGH!" Gibby clutched his right side. The car swerved and nearly left the road before he was able to right it.

Both adults were momentarily shocked into full alertness. "What's wrong?" They exclaimed simultaneously.

"N…nothing," said Gibby. "Might have torn a suture or two, that's all."

He took his hand from his side and again clenched the steering wheel firmly. Before Spencer drifted back into a drug-induced haze, a last thought pierced his brain:

_What's that on Gibby's fingers?_

_Is that __**blood?**_


	12. The Breaking Point

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to ****SeDdIeLuVeR13.** **Here's hoping it meets with her approval.**

**Also, since this story is drawing to a close, I'd be interested to hear any suggestions anyone has for what my next iCarly multichap should be. I'm open to any ideas – the wilder, the better. (Well, **_**almost **_**any ideas. I'm not really keen on the whole "Freddie gets Sam and/or Carly pregnant, then they angst about it for 100,000 words" routine.)**

**Disclaimer: Don't own.**

"Oh, you beautiful baby," said Freddie Benson to the tank of goo containing his new nanomachine, as he giggled like a love-struck schoolgirl.

On one level, he was fully aware of how silly he was acting. But on another level, he quite simply didn't care. Even if no one without an electron microscope could see the tiny work of art he had just created, it was still a thing of beauty. For its oh-so-short life, it had a clearly defined mission: seek out the chemical traces of its deadly predecessor; pursue it; consume it; dissolve into atoms of hydrogen and oxygen. Problem solved.

He was alone in the lab; in celebration of the breakthrough, he had allowed his co-workers to turn in for the night (not that night and day had any real meaning, so deep underground). He could dance and sing all he liked, without fear of being mocked. Not that anyone would have mocked him anyway, once they learned the cause of his giddiness.

With luck, he might just have saved the world.

He was so absorbed in his revelry that the conversation outside barely impinged on his consciousness.

"Hey, Jim. What are you doing here? I thought you were on desk duty." That was Frank Caldwell, the Marine sergeant who had sentry duty for Lab 6-C during the night shift.

"Nah, they put me back in the rotation. You're relieved, Frank. Go get some shuteye." A familiar voice, but Freddie couldn't place it.

"Look, you know I'm on shift until 0400. Whose orders are you acting on, anyway?" Caldwell's voice was sterner now.

When the other man finally spoke again, it was in strained, urgent tones. "…Dammit, Frank, just get out of the way, okay? I don't want you to get caught up in what I'm about to do."

"Jesus, Jim, what's the matter with you? I need to call the CO – "

The crack of gunfire – two pistol shots in quick succession.

Freddie whirled.

Sergeant Frank Caldwell lay just outside the door, bleeding profusely from his abdomen.

And Sergeant James Macintosh, with mad fury and utter despair fighting for dominance in his clear grey eyes, was pointing a pistol at Freddie's forehead.

/

Sam Puckett shut her eyes tightly and pretended that Carly Shay's incessant voice was nothing more than an irksome mosquito buzzing in her ears. She had hoped that the brunette's moving out would allow her to sulk undisturbed. No such luck.

"C'mon, Sam! You can't stay holed up in here forever! Freddie needs you! He sent word that he's got some wonderful news – don't you want to come and see?" _Buzz, buzz, buzz…_

Carly grew frustrated and began to shake the blonde's shoulders. "Would you pay _attention_ to me for once? Freddie might have made a breakthrough! Come on!"

Without saying a word, Sam shoved her roughly away.

She wouldn't have been surprised if Carly had retaliated by striking her. In fact, some part of her acknowledged that she deserved it. But when there was no response for a few minutes, she looked up at last, to see that her best friend was, instead, crying.

"Please, Sam! I just want us to be together, like it used to be! Just for one minute! That's all!"

Sam was stunned. She had never seen Carly so distraught. Slowly she raised herself from the bed and went to her friend. "Look, Carls, I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear. I just…I couldn't take all this, you know? I wanted to shut myself off from everything."

"Even your friends?" The red-eyed Carly all but spat the words at her.

"I…I…" For once in her life, Samantha Puckett was completely at a loss for words. "…Oh, God, Carls, forgive me." Crying herself now, she fell into her friend's arms.

The tender moment was rudely interrupted by the screech of an alarm.

"Not again," Sam groaned.

But it took the two friends only a moment to realize that this time was very different from the last. When the attempted incursion from above had been made, the response was swift, finely tuned; it was obvious that it was a scenario long since prepared for. Now, there was genuine panic in the air. Men and women were scrambling out of the various buildings of the complex, yelling confusedly at one another, some of them still half-asleep and struggling to get their shirts and pants on. Stranger still, rather than heading to their respective posts, the whole crowd was flowing in one direction.

"Sam," Carly said slowly, "Am I imagining things, or are they all headed for…"

"Freddie's lab," the blonde gasped.

Sam pulled a bathrobe on over her pajamas, and the two girls sprinted like mad toward the chaos.

To no one's surprise, Velazquez was at the front of the crowd, trying to maintain some semblance of order. As soon as he saw Sam and Carly approaching, he yelled, "No! Miss Puckett, Miss Shay, go back to your quarters and remain there! That's an order!"

"Last time I checked, we don't work for you, buddy!" Sam snapped back. "Now what the hell is going on here? Did something happen to Freddie?"

"I said stay back! We can handle this, Miss Puckett!" The bureaucrat's craggy face was red, his eyes fierce.

Carly, breathing hard, came up beside her. "Look, Mr. Velazquez, we're not leaving until we get some answers. It's as simple as that."

He shut his eyes momentarily, as if bracing himself against a powerful wind. "…Very well. I suppose you have a right to know. It would seem we have a hostage situation on our hands."

"A what? I thought this was supposed to be the safest place in the whole damn world!" Sam shouted.

"It is. But…apparently one of our personnel has suffered a psychotic break of some sort. He's armed, and he's barricaded himself in the lab with Mr. Benson."

Sam could only manage one word. "Who?"

She thought the bureaucrat's pause would last forever.

"…Sergeant Macintosh."

"The man whose family you fucking _slaughtered?"_

"Yes."

Angry mutters arose from all parts of the gathered crowd. It was becoming clear that Velazquez' heretofore iron grip on authority was slipping. Sam, immersed in her own turmoil, only caught snippets of their talk.

"How dare he give that order…"

"The poor guy's probably shell-shocked. Who could blame…"

"…probably tell us to go in guns blazing. That's his solution to everything, isn't it? Kill…"

"Silence!" the bureaucrat roared. The talk subsided, but did not cease entirely. "We can debate the ethics of my prior actions _after_ this crisis is resolved. For now, we need to focus on neutralizing Sergeant Macintosh."

Carly spoke up hesitantly. "You've got trained snipers here, don't you? Can't you just pick him off and get Freddie out of there?"

"Rifle fire is not an option, Miss Shay. We must make absolutely sure that the laboratory equipment remains undamaged."

Sam couldn't believe her ears. "That's all you can think about right now? The _lab equipment_?"

Velazquez advanced on Sam, pressing up against her, seemingly trying to intimidate her with his massive body. He leaned down so close into her face that she could smell the cigarettes on his breath. "I'll have you know, Miss Puckett, that any damage to 6-C could render it impossible to continue Mr. Benson's work. Hate me all you want, but I will _not_ countenance any measures that might compromise our mission. And just for the record, I'm becoming very weary of your second-guessing me at every turn."

"You slimy, heartless **bastard**…" Sam caught herself. _No, he's right. Time enough later to make him pay._

She drew a deep breath and collected herself. "Look, dude, if you really want to end this peacefully, let Carly and me talk to this guy. We're not military, we're not scientists – whatever his beef is, it's probably not going to be with us."

"That's absurd. Neither of you has any training in hostage negotiations, and you, Miss Puckett, are hardly what I'd call a natural-born diplomat."

"Can't argue with you on either point. But I really don't see what other choice you've got – _Mister_ Velazquez," she added snidely.

"Oh, God _damn_ it…fine." He turned toward the laboratory door and shouted: "Sergeant? I have two young ladies here who would like a word with you. If you don't want to talk to me, perhaps you'll talk to them instead?"

For a moment, there was no response; then the door swung slowly open. Sam and Carly entered, cautiously.

The lab was entirely as it had been the last time Carly visited, except for one jarring difference: the great plasma screen that had shown a map of the infection's spread was smashed to bits. Beneath where it had hung, amidst the pieces, Freddie crouched, hands over his head. Despite the desperate situation, he was calm – eerily so, Sam thought.

The soldier whom Sam and Carly had met when they first arrived at Beta Ark stood next to him, one eye on the girls, the other on Freddie. In his left hand was a pistol. "You two try anything, and I'll put a bullet in his brain, do you understand me?"

Ice ran through Sam's veins. "Yeah, we understand." She held up both hands to show that she posed no threat; Carly followed suit. "We heard you're…upset. Anything you want to get off your chest?"

He laughed bitterly. "Yeah, sure. That's just what I need right now – a good session of psychoanalysis. Because that'll definitely be enough to bring back my WIFE and my SONS from the dead!"

Sam realized that his grip was tightening on the trigger. Desperate to forestall him, she cried, "I'm sorry, Sergeant – Mr. Macintosh – what's your first name?"

"I go by Jim," he muttered.

"Jim, I'm so sorry. Carly and I begged Velazquez not to do it. It was horrible, and it was unforgivable. But please, hurting Freddie isn't going to help anything. He didn't even have anything to do with it!"

"Didn't he? From what I've heard, the whole _world_ has Mr. Benson to thank for everything that's happened to it. Maybe Velazquez pulled the trigger, but my family would never have been put in that position to start with if this arrogant, bungling little _shit_ hadn't screwed up!"

"You're right," said Freddie.

Sam gasped. "What? No. No, Freddie, no. You can't believe that-"

"Yes, I can! Can you really look me in the eye and tell me that anything he's said isn't true?"

For the second time that night, she was speechless.

Freddie gave an almost imperceptible nod. "That's what I thought."

"You see?" Macintosh cocked his gun. "Even he admits that he's earned a bullet."

"NO!" Sam and Carly screamed.

Freddie, seemingly unfazed, ignored his friends' distress and addressed himself solely to the Marine. "That's not what I said."

"…The hell? You just agreed that you…"

"Caused all this? Yes. But..." Freddie sighed. "Look, the truth is that I can never undo what I did. I know that as well as anybody. Believe me, if I thought my death would fix things for everybody else, I would have killed myself a long time ago, just like Dr. Meacham did. But with the discovery that I've just made, I can at least limit the damage I've done. Kill me now, and all you'll do is ensure that the whole world will go on suffering and dying. Is that what you want? Will that ease your pain?" He enunciated each word slowly, carefully: "Will that bring your family back?"

Macintosh's grip on his gun wavered. "That's…that's not the point. I know they're gone forever. But someone, somewhere, has to PAY!"

Sam took a step forward. "So, because you had the people you love taken away from you, you're going to take Freddie away from the people who…" A lump caught in her throat. "…who love _him?_"

The Marine gaped at her. "You _love_ this guy? You love a man who just destroyed the _world?_"

"No. I love a man who would sacrifice anything – even his own life – to _save_ the world." Her lip quivered as she fought back tears. "Please don't take him from me, Jim. Please."

Macintosh looked from her to Freddie. His arm wavered; shook; fell, slowly, to his side. Sam reached forward and gently took the gun from his hand. He did not resist.

"I miss my wife," he whispered. "So much."

And then he, too, began to weep.

/

"Did you mean what you said?" Freddie asked Sam as they swept up the mess.

"I don't say things I don't mean, Frednub. Just…don't ask me to say it again. At least not in public. I've still got a reputation to uphold, you know." She punched him playfully on the arm.

"Mr. Benson!" barked Velazquez, entering the lab. "I think you have more important things to attend to right now than janitorial duty."

"What's going to happen to Sergeant…to Jim?" Sam asked him.

"We have no intention of pursuing a court-martial, if that's what you're worried about, Miss Puckett. Sergeant Macintosh is in custody for now, but once the present crisis is over he'll be committed to a psychiatric hospital for long-term evaluation." He stopped, as if uncomfortable with what he was going to say next. "You…did a good job, Miss Puckett. I am in your debt. We all are."

She grinned. "Do I get a medal?"

"…Perhaps," he said, a touch sheepishly. "For the moment, our top priority is putting Mr. Benson's breakthrough to good use. The President has mobilized every plane, military and civilian, that we can get our hands on."

"To do what?" asked Carly.

"Oh, just a bit of crop dusting, Miss Shay…all over the world."


	13. So Close Yet So Far

**A/N: This is short and, frankly, rather bad, but I really want to keep this story moving toward the end. That said, stay tuned for a special announcement at the end of this chapter!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own.**

One of Spencer Shay's earliest memories was of a record that his mother often played to soothe him as he lay in his crib. It was a corny old song, really:

_You've got to accentuate the positive_

_Eliminate the negative_

_Tune in to the affirmative_

_And don't mess with Mr. In-Between!_

Consciously or not, he had absorbed the lesson well. Whatever happened to him, be it little inconveniences like his sculptures' tendency to burst into flames, or terrible tragedies like his mother's death, Spencer had never allowed himself frustration or tears. Be a clown; make everyone laugh; wash the pain away – that was his chosen role in life, and oh, did he play it well.

But now, at last, he could keep up the façade no longer. As he listened to the engine sputter, wheeze, and die, the happy little ditty playing over and over in his head was twisted into a hellish mockery.

_It was all for nothing,_ he thought. _All those years, trying so hard to be the man of the house, trying to keep our family together – it was all one colossal damn waste. We're going to die out here in this godforsaken desert, and I'll never see Carly again – if she's still alive._

"Spencer!" Marissa snapped at him from the driver's seat. "Don't just sit there staring into space! Get out and push!"

He obeyed, though he knew it would do no good. He was sure that she knew this too; but Marissa Benson had never been the type to surrender to the inevitable.

The moment he opened the car door, the searing heat blasted his already sunburned face. He coughed as his steps kicked up a cloud of dust. What little foliage had once dotted this wasteland had now perished under the remorseless assault of acid rain. It would not be long before wind erosion carried away the pathetic remains of the topsoil.

In a daze, uncaring and beaten, he rounded the car, stumbling on the bleached bones of what had once been a coyote. A haze of acrid smoke drifted from the tailpipe, and, looking back along their route, Spencer could see the trail of oil they had left. Ahead of them was a bleak plain running a few hundred yards, and then, nothing but a vast, inexplicable crater. Supposedly Freddie was somewhere near here, but there was no way to be sure; Marissa's PearPhone battery had run out many miles back.

"SPENCER!" Marissa was screaming now, giving in to the grip of panic. "Get moving! We need to get Gibby to shelter!"

_Why?_ He thought ruefully. _So he can be sure to die in the shade?_

After they fled from the Dirshlitts, it had been nearly six hours before Gibby was willing to relinquish the wheel, and only then did Marissa realize how badly he was injured. The exertion had torn open all his sutures, and the upholstery was stained with his blood; he himself was deathly pale.

A transfusion was out of the question: both Spencer and Marissa were type A, while Gibby was B-negative. All they could do was stanch the bleeding and keep him supplied with fluids. It was not long before their jars of water had been drained dry.

Gibby, with a huge effort, raised himself to a sitting position and smiled at Spencer through the rear windshield. In his hand was an empty Pepsi bottle – the one Spencer had salvaged from the hospital vending machine. The boy raised it to his lips, trying pathetically to suck out the last few drops.

Spencer bent and pushed, each intake of breath sending agonizing pain down his raw throat. The ruined car inched forward as Marissa tried the engine – once, twice, a third time. Nothing.

At last Spencer fell to his hands and knees. He had given up his last ounce of strength. Above him, buzzards circled, their feeble cries indicating that they were as thirsty and weak as he. Still, he didn't doubt that the scavengers would be able to enjoy one last hearty meal. Soon. Very soon.

He felt arms around him – Marissa's. She struggled to pull him up. "Don't," he gasped. "Leave me alone. Just let me die in peace. Please."

"That's not going to happen, Spencer, and you know it. Gibby and I are counting on you."

"It's OVER, Marissa! Stop fooling yourself!" Seeing the sudden pain in her eyes, he softened his tone. "…We fought the good fight, okay? We tried our best. But it was just too much for us, that's all. There's no shame in it. Let's just…rest now."

"No…no…" Marissa Benson's tall, gaunt frame was racked by sobs. "Not like this…not when we came so far…"

"Sssh," he whispered, trying to soothe her. "It's okay. Just lie down and rest."

As if in a trance, she lay down in the dust beside him. Her whisper was scarcely audible: "But Gibby…"

"There's nothing more we can do for him. Just close your eyes, and drift off to sleep…maybe we'll all meet again, wherever we're going…" He could scarcely believe the words he was saying; it was as if another being were speaking through him, a creature of utter, black despair that had taken him over body and soul.

His eyes shut, and he allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness. All was silent. Even the buzzards had ceased their wailing…

The roar of jet engines tore through his eardrums.

He and Marissa, jolted back to reality, exchanged baffled looks. "What the f…" he mouthed to her, but his words were lost in the deafening noise.

As the pair watched, a squadron of fighters raced through the cloudless sky, dividing the blue expanse into strips with the trails of smoke they left in their wake. Near the horizon they split into two groups, half continuing west toward the ocean, the others turning north, toward Canada. As the second group passed over a far-distant lake, visible to Spencer and Marissa only by the glint of the sun on its sickly yellow surface, a gray cloud of particulates gushed from the jets' missile tubes, blanketing the world beneath.

Then they were gone, as suddenly as they had appeared. Spencer struggled to regain his composure. "Well, um…I guess we know that there are people nearby, at any rate. Maybe…maybe we should go on, just a little longer?"

Slowly, bit by bit, Marissa's dust-covered and weary face lighted up in a smile. For the first time, Spencer realized that she was, in her own way, beautiful. "Now that's the Spencer Shay I know," she whispered.

They helped one another up. Spencer looked at his watch and gasped: they had lain there in a stupor for nearly half an hour. "Gibby!" he cried, running to the car. "Hang in there, buddy! I'm so sorry that I left-"

He stopped, stunned.

In the back seat of the car where the wounded boy had lain, there was a pile of blood-soaked bandages, and a discarded white T-shirt.

But Gibby Gibson himself was nowhere to be found.

/

**And now for that special announcement I promised:**

**I've narrowed my next iCarly multi-chapter down to two possibilities, and I'll let you vote for which you'd rather see first!**

**Your choices are:**

**iNterstellar:**

Carly Shay has never truly forgiven herself for costing her friends the chance to broadcast from outer space. Now, she has a plan to make things right: a quick jaunt into orbit aboard the new X-23 spacecraft. But when the iCarly trio are shanghaied by a mysterious alien craft and whisked away into the interstellar void, claustrophobia will be the least of Carly's worries…

**iDreamscape:**

When Sam Puckett accidentally witnesses a brutal double murder, she's left in a state of trauma-induced amnesia. In the hope of restoring her memory, a desperate Freddie turns to an experimental neurological procedure that will allow Sam unfettered access to her subconscious whenever she enters REM sleep. But the killer's still out there, intent on silencing Sam before she can incriminate him – and his interference will have consequences no one could have dreamed of.

**Vote now, or forever hold your peace!**


	14. Journey's End

**A/N: The slightly misleading chapter title notwithstanding, there will actually be one more chapter after this. A reminder: if you haven't voted yet on the next story, time is running short. As of right now, iDreamscape is ahead by a country mile.**

…_Wow. It's all so pretty. So many colors and swirly things…_

…_Wait. Are my eyes open, or shut? I'm not sure…_

…_Oops. Guess the answer was 'shut'. This isn't _nearly_ so pretty. All white lights, and gray metal, and…people? I guess they're people. Kinda _weird_ people, though. They're all wavy, and their faces are really blurry…or is that me? Whatever. All I can say is, if this is Heaven, it's _seriously_ lame…_

…_Uh oh. The blurry-head people are talking now. Better stay still until I know what the lay of the land is._

"…absolutely unbelievable. He's actually coming out of it. Sweet mother of mercy, how is this kid still _breathing_?"

_What kid? Me? So confused. Need a nap…_

"Damned if I know. He may be pudgy on the outside, but he's got guts of iron. Kid would make a hell of a Marine, if you want my opinion."

"If he pulls through, you may get your wish. Something tells me the government's gonna need all the help it can get putting this mess of a world back together. And that's assuming Mop Up works."

"Looks pretty promising so far, from what I hear. But there's no telling how far those goddamn little monsters have already spread. We can't even-"

…_Why did they stop talking? It's like they're scared or something…Whoa! That must be why! BIG TALL new blurry-head man in the house!_

"Where did you find him?"

"Just within the rim of the blast crater. From the scrapes on his hands and knees, it looks like he'd been crawling for at least half a mile."

…_Yeah. Probably shouldn't have done that. Hurt like hell. But Spencer was talking like they were just going to lie down and die, and that wasn't my bag…_

"And you made the decision to bring him here for treatment, without consulting me?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I did. I exercised my initiative, and I'm not sorry I did, either. So if you're waiting for an apology, you can just keep on waiting until hell freezes over, _Mister_ Velazquez, _sir_."

_Uh oh. Sounds like somebody's got a _serious_ attitude problem. Mrs. Benson would _not_ approve of that kind of back talk, let me tell you…wait. Where is she, anyway? And who the hell am I talking to?_

"I have had just about enough of your insolence, Lance Corporal, and…and…no, damn it, you're right. You made a sound judgment call. Mop Up is well underway, and the boy poses no threat of interference. We can afford a humanitarian indulgence. …What? What's the matter?"

"…I…I didn't expect to hear that from you, sir. No offense."

"None taken…_*sigh* _Christ, Overbeck, I may be an officious bastard, but I'm still a human being, and I'm just as tired of death as you are. No more killing. Not today."

"…Thank you, sir."

…_Okay, still not clear on the situation, but 'no more killing' definitely sounds like a plus…_

"Does he have any identification?"

"No, sir. Not even a wallet. All we found in his pockets was…hold on a minute, let me check…one Topps baseball card, Carl Yastrzemski, 1984; one half-chewed piece of Spearmint gum; three acorns; one Pepsi bottle, empty; one Post-It note, reading 'Socks first, **THEN **shoes'."

_Hey! Get your dirty mitts off my Yastrzemski card! That stays with me wherever I go!_

"That's…a touch unusual."

"I get the feeling this _kid_ is 'a touch unusual'. When he woke up for a few seconds in the Jeep, he asked if I was 'the Surgical Mask Fairy' his mom always told him about."

"…Interesting. Well, let me know when he regains consciousness fully – Mr. Benson? What are you doing here?"

_Hey, I know a guy whose last name is Benson. What a funny coincidence!_

"Sorry to interrupt. Just wanted to let you know that we've gotten good news from the RCAF. Readings from Bennett Lake in British Columbia show a 95% drop in hostile nanomachines. Our guys are getting similar results at Crater Lake."

…_Why is that voice so familiar?_

"Well, that's encouraging. But what about the oceans?"

"…That's…going to take time. The Seventh Fleet is on standby in the Mediterranean. I recommend we give them the go order to start dumping now. I know tests aren't finished, but I don't think we can afford any further delay."

"That's a bold step, Mr. Benson, but I trust your judgment. Corporal? Get me a line to Admiral Parker at Gibraltar."

"Right away, sir."

"…So, I heard you found someone alive in the blast crater?"

"Indeed, Mr. Benson. It would seem that news travels fast."

"Sorry. You know how gossip is."

"No apologies necessary. The boy's right over there; I'm told that he was suffering from severe blood loss, dehydration, and heatstroke to boot. It's a miracle that Corporal Overbeck here got to him in time."

…_Okay, it's settled. That dude Overbeck is _definitely _going on my Christmas card list….Wait, do they even _have _mail anymore?_

"Do you know who he is?"

"We have no idea. It seems the only 'identification' he carried was a baseball card for some individual called 'Carl Yastrzemski'."

"…Wait. What year?"

"Oh, I don't remember. What difference does it make?"

"_**What year?**_"

"Good Lord, Mr. Benson, no need to get so agitated. Overbeck? What was it again?"

" '84."

"…No. No way. It's impossible."

"Mr. Benson, what on earth is the _matter_ with-"

"**OUT OF MY WAY!**"

…_Uh oh. Looks like we've got incoming. A short blurry-head. Impressive biceps, though. Hey, wait a minute…is that…_

"**JESUS F&*&*#&%#ING CHRIST! **_**GIBBY!**_"

…_Man. Who knew blurry-headed people gave such crushing bear hugs?_

/

"He couldn't possibly have gotten far. Not under his own power."

"Unless somebody took him."

"Who the hell would 'take' him, Marissa? We're in the middle of a damn _desert!_ You're talking nonsense!"

"I'm just trying to consider every possibility! And screaming at me isn't going to help!"

She was right, though Spencer hated to admit it. In a sudden fit of rage, he spun and kicked the side of the now useless car. The sickening crack and hot lance of pain that shot through his foot told him that he had broken several toes.

"SPENCER!" Marissa cried. "Stop it! You won't be able to walk if you keep doing that!"

The fight went out of him. He sagged, slumped, his forehead against the metal of the Pontiac's doorframe. It was viciously hot, but he no longer cared.

"Forgive me, Marissa…I failed you…I failed Gibby…Carly…Sam…"

"Freddie," Marissa said.

"Yes. Him too."

"_Freddie_."

"I heard you the first time, dammit. You don't have to repeat yourself."

"**FREDDIE!**"

Startled, he looked up. Marissa's gaze was fixed upon the crater ahead. With implacable steadiness, a Jeep crested the rim and rumbled toward them. A Marine was at the wheel; Gibby, new color in his once wan cheeks, was riding shotgun; and standing on the running board, a look of pure euphoria on his face, was…

"Oh, my God," Spencer whispered.

He began to run toward the oncoming Jeep. His shattered foot protested; he ignored it. His parched lungs seized up; he ignored them too. Marissa was at his heels, then passed him up with the swiftness of an Olympic track star, driven by the unstoppable cocktail of adrenaline and joy.

The Jeep came to a stop before them.

"Hey, Mom. Hey, Spence," Freddie Benson said. "Seems we picked up a stray," and jerked his thumb toward the grinning Gibby.

"I…I…" Marissa Benson could not form coherent words.

"It's okay, Mom. I know what you want to say," and he hugged her tightly as her tears began to flow.


	15. Epilogue: Phoenix from the Ashes

**A/N: Let's put this puppy to bed, shall we? Thanks to all those who read, reviewed, alerted, favorited, **_**et cetera.**_** Also, looks like iDreamscape is the hands-down winner. So stay tuned!**

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

It's hardly a conventional honeymoon, but then neither of them has ever been accused of being conventional.

Digging through rubble, improvising bandages out of any material to hand, passing out bowls of canned soup heated over an open fire to a seemingly endless string of homeless: these take up their days. Nights are for talk in low voices, sometimes guard duty (looters and gangs abound), and then exhausted sleep. It is the price Spencer and Marissa pay for rebuilding the ruined city of Seattle, and they are glad to pay it.

The empty shells of what had been thriving office buildings, pockmarked on the exterior by the scars of relentless acid rain, greet them every morning. They have befriended a community of refugees who are squatting in the Henry M. Jackson Federal Building; one among their number, a girl barely out of her teens, reminds Spencer of Carly, and he chats with her often. But he is only half-listening when she speaks; for he finds himself saying a mental prayer for his sister, wherever she may be.

/

Everyone on the _Mary Maguire _laughed when she asked to be taken on board. The crew is made up, not to put too fine a point on it, of the flotsam of the world; men of many nations, all running from dark pasts, they welcome the solitude of the open ocean, and they've agreed to undertake this humanitarian mission now only because the global catastrophe has made commercial fishing in the Pacific impossible for the foreseeable future. She sticks out like a sore thumb among them, this slender wisp of a young woman; she has no experience with ships or the sea. The captain can't help but wonder, every time a gale blows up, whether his improbable passenger will simply be swept away.

Now, though, as they approach Sri Lanka, he thinks that he's beginning to understand her better. There is a reservoir of strength deep within her that her frail exterior scarcely even hints at. For, unlike everyone else aboard the _Mary Maguire_, she has a driving purpose in life.

Perhaps the man she's seeking will be alive, marooned on some tiny island, or held hostage by one of the many petty warlords now vying for dominance in the South Asian subcontinent. This is what she hopes, of course; but she's reconciled herself to the possibility – even probability – that he is dead. Already she has cleared space in the _Mary Maguire_'s hold for a coffin to hold his body, should the need arise.

But one way or another, Carly Shay _will_ bring her father home.

/

He will never completely heal. For the rest of his life, he will feel a twinge of pain in his abdomen whenever he exerts himself, and all the memories of those hellish days will flood back, no matter how hard he tries to block them out.

He has yet to hear anything from his parents, or Tasha. Perhaps one day miraculous good news will arrive; but for now, he must assume that he is alone.

Still, he is not beaten. He enjoys his new home; after a life in the often dreary urban landscape of Seattle, the feel of the Kansas soil between his fingers is invigorating, glorious. Making this parched earth bear grain once again will be a titanic challenge; but he, and the hundreds of others who have migrated here from across the country – most of them, like him, refugees from cities – will not rest until they succeed.

As in the old world, so too in the new, Gibby Gibson is giving of himself to help others.

/

This map is far more pleasing to him than the last. No more blood-red stain to show the spread of death; now, areas marked in blue indicate bodies of water reclaimed by the acid-neutralizing nanomachines which he finally succeeded in creating after weeks of ceaseless work.

Outside the laboratory window, evening falls. He looks out at the brightest "star" in the darkening sky, and thinks of the fate Earth so narrowly avoided. The Evening Star – Venus, the planet with clouds of sulfuric acid, crushing atmospheric pressures and temperatures of nine hundred degrees, on whose hellish surface no living thing could survive.

Whatever hardships he and the rest of humanity may face in the years to come, they will, he thinks as he stares at Venus, have absolutely no cause to complain.

The brush of familiar lips against his cheek rouses him from his reverie.

"How's it going?"

"…Still too soon to say."

"You're getting to be a broken record, Frednub." She elbows him gently in the ribs.

He grins. "I just want to be cautious, that's all. It may be a hundred years before the ecosystem fully recovers. For now, it's a matter of taking baby steps."

He realizes that she is blushing. This uncharacteristic behavior baffles him. "What's the matter? What'd I say?"

"Um…well, you see, Freddie…speaking of 'baby steps'…" She is positively beet red now, and her hand is on her stomach.

Freddie Benson has one of the most brilliant scientific minds in the world, yet it still takes several seconds before what Sam is trying to convey to him actually sinks in.

"…Oh, boy."

The next few months will be busy indeed.

**END**


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